


Who Our King Truly Was (Hills of Iron)

by Meysun



Series: The King of Carven Stone [4]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Brother-Sister Relationships, Depression, Dwarven Politics, Dwarves In Exile, Dysfunctional Family, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Madness, Mamarrakhûn, Oaths & Vows, Thorin Feels, Thorin-centric, Young Thorin Oakenshield
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2017-02-02
Packaged: 2018-09-21 14:38:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 52,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9553067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meysun/pseuds/Meysun
Summary: Having reached the Iron Hills, Thorin is recovering slowly from sickness and exhaustion. But madness has broken his family apart, and Thorin does not know how to conceal it anymore. As a Dwarven council approaches, and his people's next course is about to be drawn, Thorin slowly finds the way back to himself, and seals his bond with his shield-brother Dwalin forever.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> And another re-edited part of Thorin's life, this time in the Iron Hills! Thorin is still twenty-four here, which makes him about twelve in human age - teetering between childhood and grown-up issues. Thank Mahal for Dwalin :)... As usual, the story is told from Thorin's point of view, as he remembers it lying on Ravenhill.
> 
> Thank you so much with (re)-reading and - should you be following me - my apologies for the incessant alert-messages in your mailbox, especially if you already know the story and are waiting for a real update... Just three more parts to edit (and they are easier, not much to change) and we will get there!
> 
> In the meantime, take care! Much love, Meysun.

Coming back to life is a slow and painful journey, each step a struggle, each day a small victory. Such a strange battle to fight, between two worlds, one full of hardships, and the other a blank, a void only filled with questions... I guess the Soul clings to every sensation, magnifies every feeling, after facing death and pushing it temporarily away.

At least this is what happened to me, that winter in the Iron Hills coated in ice and snow, where I recovered slowly and found my way back to my exhausted body.

Strange that it all happened away from my family, away from Dís and Frerin, away from my father, away even from Dáin – I should have been with them, they were my closest kin and I was still Thráin's son, and Thrór's grandson, even though I was reduced to a mere shadow of my former self.

But when I collapsed they had taken me straight to Dwalin's room that was nearest, and I had been too weak to be moved afterwards. And so it happened that, during the first week, while my family was taken in by Náin and Grór, I lay in Fundin's house, lost in fever dreams of snow and fire.

They told me later I stopped breathing for some seconds, that night where I saw the white bridge for the first time. It happened twice in my life afterwards, and every time coming back was excruciating, leaving me broken, without any strength.

I was a shadow in the darkness, and my only light was Dwalin.

He was there. Always there.

He smiled at me when I woke, his fingers enclosing my wrist, making sure I remembered where I was – safe and sound, away from the snow. He held me when I tried to sit and he made me eat – he would frown and scold me softly when I would drop my spoon, unable to finish my small plate, but he never forced me. He noticed that often, the main fact of sitting was too much, that I had no strength left to do both, and so he would make me lie down again and try to give me the rest later.

And I would reach out for his hand, always, wrapping my fingers around his thumb and fall asleep with the promise that I had reached him – that no matter where my dreams would carry me, he would stay there and bring me back from cold and death.

I never asked for anyone in my illness – not my father, not even Dís and Frerin, and least of all my grandfather. I had been told they were well and resting, I had secured my mind about that at least. They could not help me. I was so far away from them anyway.

I just wanted Dwalin.

He talked to me, quietly. He told me my lungs were inflamed, that I was fevered and breathless because my body was fighting infection. I was not even coughing that much... or perhaps I did and it mingled in my head with the ash and dust the Dragon had brought upon us.

I was having nightmares, about Fire mostly while I was fevered, but the worst were set in the snow – I would wake up drenched in sweat, my tunic damp against my chest. My chest where Svali had lain, where I had sensed him breath, until he left me. I did not moan, I did not make a sound, yet Dwalin seemed to feel it.

Every time I would wake, wondering why Mahal did not take me, why I was still there, shivering and weak, so useless, there he was. I could feel his arms around me, circling my chest, and his warmth on my back as he would make me lean against him. He let me sleep curled up in his embrace like a Dwarfling, and I never even considered not doing so.

I needed him too much. Cold, snow and death were still so close.

That day, however, I had woken without the feeling of dizziness fever always gave me. The pain in my chest had receded slightly, and my dreams had not been as vivid as before – my sight was clearer and I felt able to move, sitting myself against my pillow.

For the first time, I truly looked around me, wondering where I was, and the first thing I noticed was that I was alone. The day was late already, I could tell it from the fading light that was still shining through one of the small windows on my right – a lamp was burning on my left sight, the flame bright and cheerful, lighting the room.

It was Dwalin's room, of course.

It was just like him – warm, safe, and mostly unadorned. You had to look harder to find out who was living there, a quick glance was not enough. And I... I was still weak, but I was biased, I knew my friend – we might have spent only several weeks together, but we had talked and practically not left each other, even afterwards.

He was my best friend. He still is.

And I recognized him in every corner. The bed, of course – it was simple, without any flourish, and the blankets were of warm, slightly rough wool. Then there was an iron chest, thrown open, and inside I could see several pair of boots, carefully cleaned, a folded chainmail, and a helmet. His shield was just behind the chest, the adorned part turned towards the wall – he would not show it, he did not really care about that.

A shield was a shield, what mattered was the person behind it. Friend or foe. With Dwalin it was always simple.

He kept his other weapons on a low table next to his desk: his sword, sheathed in its scabbard, his axe, blade turned down so as not to damage the wood, and a mattock also – this was new to me, I had never seen him fight with that weapon before...

And on his desk were his books – not so many, not because he didn't enjoy reading, but because there were few in the Iron Hills. The treasure of Erebor had not only laid in gold – the libraries had been as valuable, probably even more, for we had gathered books not only about our own knowledge and history, but also from entire Middle Earth. Now it was lost, burnt down to ashes, fuel for the Dragon's fire... I shuddered, and looked at the wall.

There was a map hanging there, a map of Middle Earth, with pins on the Iron Hills, and on the Lonely Mountain. He had attached them with a small dark thread and it moved me – I knew he had done that because of Balin, they did that each time they parted, giving each other a thread of their favourite tunic.

They were always apart... Balin was so much older, he had been forty when Dwalin was born – an unexpected blessing, he always said, looking at Dwalin who would grumble and blush. He left for Erebor when Dwalin was still not much more than a baby, and for what...?

They did not see each other so often – I think Balin knew me better than his own brother back then... But a brother is a brother, and Dwalin would tie the thread between the pins that held them apart, while Balin kept it carefully with his writing tools.

Both so different. Both so similar in their faith and love.

My gaze left the map and then I saw it. A small, colourful drawing of a tall, sharp Mountain, the sun bright and everything but round, with a hundred rays at least spreading from its orb, and six little figures with big heads and small bodies, holding their hands. I knew what was written below – she had begged me to write it down, before Dwalin had left.

_Dáin, Dwalin, Balin, Dís, Thorin, Frerin._

Dís in the middle of course, and the heads of the figures red, brown, dark and golden. All linked – Durin cousins, tiny links of the same chain.

I swallowed, hard. It seemed ages ago, and I still remembered her small weight on my lap as I had held her, writing down our names in tiny runes – her gift for my best friend.

He had kept it. He had pinned it to his wall and looked at it every day. He knew what a fragile treasure this chain was.

The sun had set and the room was getting darker, the light of the lamp flickering and drawing shadows upon the ceiling. I lay back against my pillow, suddenly feeling cold again.

I was always cold. I was so thin, even the flesh between my fingers seemed to have vanished, and my ring would have fallen long ago if Dwalin had not put it around my thumb, always mindful and caring. My ribs and my hipbones were standing out sharply under my skin, I could feel them under the heavy fabric of my tunic, under the woollen blanket that still was not enough to warm me up.

"How could you leave him?"

The voice that had let out those words seemed to come from far away. It was muffled by the stone wall and the door, and by the way Dwalin always spoke when he was angry – he barely ever shouted, on the contrary, his voice tended to soften alarmingly.

I rose again, wondering what was upsetting him and who he was talking to, and I soon had my answer.

"It always sounds so simple with you. Life is not black and white, it is much more complicated than that..."

I recognized Balin's voice and it sounded tired. Tired and hurt – I pulled back the blankets and sat up, my palms leaning upon the mattress as my head started to spin.

"Don't start lecturing me. I don't care for what you will say. You should have noticed, you should never have left him. You should never have let him push himself so far."

Slowly now. I put my bare feet upon the ground and then I rested, already breathless, already clawing for air. Useless – I was useless, not even properly dressed. They had stripped me off everything but my tunic and breeches, trying to make the fever abide.

Yet the clothes I was wearing were of a soft, warm fabric, rougher than Erebor's elaborated tissues, but carefully woven and neat. They were Dwalin's. They had been his, and his mother had been attentive and kind enough to alter them and make them fit my body.

"What do you know of what I did, or did not do?"

Balin's voice was wounded and angry, I had never heard him so upset, so vulnerable – he sounded so young...

"Do you think it was easy, to turn my back on him, knowing that I was letting him alone to face the snow?"

He slammed his hand on something and I flinched, still sitting on the edge of the bed, feeling my body begin to shake.

"Do you think it was easy, to see him cry, to hear him beg me to stay with him – he's even younger than you!"

There were tears in his voice and I could not bear it – I reached for my boots that were close to me on the ground, worn out but clean and still not falling apart. I pulled them on and had to rest my head against the wall when I recovered. The room was spinning around me, but I still could hear them.

"Then why did you leave him? Why did everyone get saved but him? Why did nobody notice he was fading away – _dying_ , for Mahal's sake!

\- Dwalin, that is enough..."

The calm voice belonged to Fundin, and I could hear the noise of a chair drawn back.

"Let him speak his mind, _'adad_ ", Balin replied, his voice very low. "He is young, he doesn't understand yet...

\- Of course I do! There is nothing to understand, this is about keeping your eyes open and...

\- And what? Don't you think Thorin had open eyes, ever since we had to leave Erebor? Dwalin, believe me, he kept them wide open, he's not like you, racing away and just following his heart without..."

Balin's quiet sob tore my heart as efficiently as the mention of my own name. Me. They were arguing about me. Fundin's sons – one against each other. It had to stop. I could not let another family fall apart because of me.

"So you are telling me it was his own choice to keep there in the snow, to exhaust himself like that?! He's dreaming of it, Balin. Every night. It's eating him away."

Dwalin's voice was fierce, and I almost moaned, clenching my fists fiercely on my knees – it had to stop. It had to stop. I rose and steadied myself with one hand on the wall.

"Why did it have to be Thorin?", Dwalin went on. "What did Thráin do? Where was Thrór?"

My breath was short, it was wheezing as I followed the wall, pausing after each step I took.

"He has a point here, Balin", Fundin quietly said. "I understand from Náin that Thráin has been... quite shaken, and that the loss of Erebor weighs heavy upon Thrór's mind, but still – surely it was not Thorin's burden to bear...?

\- Of course not."

Balin's tone was desperate, but it was calm and firm and sounded more like himself.

"It was not Thorin's burden to bear."

I was standing against the wall, my legs shaking, waiting for his next words. I do not know what I expected.

_But he did, because his father and grandfather both lost their minds?_

_But he did, because he had sworn to protect Erebor and its people, and that there was no one left but him?_

Balin just said:

"Believe me, I have never forgotten who our King truly was."

He had spoken quietly, and yet his words hit me full in the chest. He had not told his family a word about the dreadful state of mine. He had kept Thrór's madness secret, had not breathed a word about my father's ravings – he had kept them a King and a Prince to every Dwarf of the Iron Hills, including his own family.

He had fulfilled his oath to his King – he shielded him to the end, and I was a disgrace to my own line to have thought about sharing that burden with anyone, forgetting about every oath that truly mattered.

My knees gave way then and I slowly slid down on the ground.

There would be no relief from madness, and from what I had lived on that exiled road. I could never ever talk about that with anyone. That tent of ours had crumbled, anyway – Itô was dead, they did not tell me but I knew it in my heart, what else could that white dream mean? The Dwarflings were too small to talk, and Dís too smart.

And Frerin... I did not know about his reactions anymore. Once I would have been sure that I would have to silence him, but now... He had not talked to me ever since he had chosen to stay with my father, he hated me for hitting him, for holding his madness at bay with my violence. He would not have talked of what I did, because it hurt him, he wanted everything hale again, as it was before...

Still... He might talk...

I did not hear Balin leave but he did, and an animated discussion followed, but I did not listen anymore, I could not listen anymore.

I flinched when I sensed hands on my shoulders – Fundin was crouching in front of me, his brown eyes he had passed on to his boys eyeing me with worry and concern.

"Thorin, what are you doing here?!

\- I have to... I need to see my brother."

I had whispered that sentence and it ended in a cough – I was breathless once more, shivering between Fundin's hands.

"What are you talking about? You should be resting, boy, Mahal knows you should!"

He steadied me as I got up, still leaning against the wall that felt so cold against my back.

"I need to see my brother", I repeated, softly, my face raised towards Fundin, wishing I was strong enough to break free from his embrace.

He frowned and felt for my cheek, testing my forehead with the back of his hand – he had warm and strong hands, just as gentle as Balin's, and yet I flinched again. My own skin was icy – the effort of getting up had drained everything from me.

"Come...", he simply said, and then he led me towards the kitchen.

He placed me on a chair and sent Dwalin to fetch a blanket, then he wrapped it around my shoulders. I was tense, so tense, but I let him rub my skin gently to warm me up.

"I have to see Frerin", I repeated, feeling my body begin to regain some heat between his hands.

"Drink this, boy", Fundin answered, thanking his wife with a nod as she placed a steaming cup in front of me.

I looked at Dwalin's mother – she was a tall, stout Dwarrowdam, with luxurious brown hair she braided into a bun that almost covered her neck. She had brown eyes too, their shade ember, lighter than Fundin's, and her collar beard was carefully trimmed, freeing her cheeks, looking so soft. She had no beads, only two small pearls that were adorning her ears, shining softly as she recovered.

"Thank you", I whispered. "For the clothes and... everything."

My breath hurried and I struggled to fight back another coughing fit.

"I am sorry to be so..."

My voice hitched and the hollow cough searing through my lungs shook my entire body.

"Hush now...", Dwalin's mother said, circling my shoulders and rubbing my chest with her fingers.

"Don't talk, love. Just drink, get some warmth into that warrior's body."

I would have given anything to lean into her embrace, to feel her arms around my waist and to rest my head on her breast. I had been motherless for so long, but I could not. She was not my mother, she already had two sons and they had just been fighting because of me...

She left her hand on my chest until my coughing ebbed and then she ran her fingers through my hair, gently pulling back my locks – it was unbraided, they had taken off my hair clasps and beads during my illness when they had washed my hair.

"We'll have to do something about that Raven mane...", she said with a smile, but her eyes were clouded as she watched me wrap my fingers around the cup.

I loved the heat, I loved the steam that was rising, promising warmth, I hated the cold so much...

"Do you want some honey?", she asked, and I looked up at her, unable to answer.

Honey. It had been weeks since I had taken something sweet. I had even forgotten it existed.

"Dwalin, sweetheart, get him some honey, would you? And a slice of oatcake too, I am sure you will love it..."

She was spoiling me just like a treasured child and I could not find the strength to fight back my feelings anymore. I leaned against her, I drank that sweet honey-flavoured tea and ate the cake, slowly, relishing every bite – I had forgotten everything except that warmth, that sweetness and those arms around me.

Honey. Ever since that day, Dwalin's mother was always mingled with its sweet softness, its golden colour, promising better days.

"There is more if you want...", Fundin said, his voice and eyes kind.

I shook my head – it still felt like a precious treat, not to be abused of.

" _Maikhmini_...", I whispered, and I felt her grip tighten around me and her kiss on my temple.

"Just eat your fill. Put back some roundness around those skinny bones, so as to fill your clothes properly..."

She was smiling again, brushing my collarbones – I was so tiny back then, it seems hardly believable to me now...

They have called me a warrior, a King. Thorin Oakenshield, the Raven-haired warlord – and I have led, I have fought, I have been strong... But that winter the proud Raven was reduced to a small, famished sparrow. And I could have died – I was so close to dying that winter. But I did not, because Fundin's family watched over me – warming me up, feeding me... and loving me.

They made me sit close to the fire after that. Dwalin smiled at me but did not talk, he just made sure I was wrapped tightly in my blanket and then went to sit with his father. I was feeling sleepy, all of a sudden – the tea, the cake, the warmth of the fire...

Fundin and Dwalin had sat around the table, sipping their tea quietly, and my eyelids were getting heavy and heavier. I could hear Dwalin's mother humming, and her gentle tune lulled me even more.

I fell asleep looking at the flames, curled up in the armchair, feeling more relaxed and shielded that I had in months. There was no madness, no violence in that abode... There was no death, no snow, no struggle, no fight...

"So strange that he never asks for his father..."

Fundin's voice roused me from my sleep but I kept my eyes shut. I did not want to wake up, I was feeling so protected and warm...

"So strange that Thráin never asks for him... Something is wrong there, Fundin. Trust me. I have never seen Balin so worn out, and starvation does not explain it alone.

\- The boy is worn out too..."

Fundin spoke softly, echoing his wife.

"Mahal, he really broke my heart, sitting on that chair, clinging to his cup. If he is better tomorrow we have to get him to his family. The little ones keep asking about him...

\- I don't know, Fundin... Look at him – he's just beginning to rest, it's the first time I see him at peace ever since he is with us...

\- His fever has broken, thank Mahal. You are right, I don't understand... Thráin was clinging to him when he reached us, and yet – he never came to him, and neither did Thrór... He's the heir, Durin's beard!

\- He's his son."

Her tone was earnest and adamant.

"Dwalin was not entirely wrong in what he said. The boy broke down not only physically. His siblings were as famished as him and they are recovering, while he's just beginning to lose that haunted look... He keeps flinching, he's always wary, and he's frightened at your touch, Fundin.

\- But – why would he?

\- Why would he indeed, my love?"

I could hear the smile in her voice as she bent towards him.

"Something happened between him and Thráin, of course. Something so serious that it shattered the boy's strength, and Balin's also. And I won't raise any scandal, Fundin, but I'm with my boy on this – we have to find out. We have to help Thorin, because I won't bear to see him again the way he was when we took him in...

\- _Amrâl_... He's the King's _grandson_... You cannot just _pry_ into their family affairs...

\- He's a child. He's just a boy. He could have been _my_ boy, just like Balin is – and Balin knows about their family affairs, be sure of that, and it makes him suffer. If you don't do it for Thorin, do it for your own son. Find out what is wrong, Fundin."

I heard Fundin sigh at her words.

"You seem to be much more clear-minded than I am... I – _amrâl_ , I don't like this. I never was close to Thráin. I always found him difficult to draw out... I was so relieved and happy when he chose your friend as his Own, and not you.

\- As was I...", she answered quietly, and I could tell from the silence that fell that she either kissed or embraced him.

"I have always pitied Thráin – such a hard, demanding, distant father, and alone, without any siblings, his mother's shadow weighing upon his life, always feeling guilty. And he's such a handsome Dwarf – this black hair he has, and those grey eyes... She was so in love with him, as was he. They both found each other, and she steadied him. But I – I would not have dared to try to repair what was broken in him... There are waters in which I'm afraid to drown...

\- You, _amrâl_? Afraid...?"

Fundin's voice was playful, he sounded exactly like Dwalin – trying to cheer her up, knowing however how earnest the matter was.

"Yes, Fundin. Afraid. And worried."

Her voice was soft and silence fell once more. When Fundin spoke, his voice was lower and I knew he was holding her against him.

"It does upset you, doesn't it, love? That boy – he got to your heart just like he got to Dwalin's, didn't he?

\- Of course, Fundin. He's her son. He has her eyes, and the shape of her hands. And he saved my boy's life. Of course I love him. Of course I want him shielded from any further harm. As she would have wished it."

They stopped talking, after that. They gathered their things and went to check on me – I had not moved, I had managed to keep my breath even, I would not have known how to face them had they noticed I had listened to their conversation. They wrapped another blanket around me and Fundin carried me back to my bed, his moves gentle as usual, while his wife made sure to kindle the fire in Dwalin's room and to leave the lamp burning at my side.

She bent down and kissed my forehead, brushing back my hair.

"Sleep tight, sweetheart. Rest."

She left me and went to Balin's room, where Dwalin was sleeping – I could hear his soft sores, he was resting too after those nights spent next to me, and she kissed him just like she did for me.

I waited until every sound stopped, until I was sure they had all gone to bed, and an endless time after that. And then I allowed myself to recall those words – my life, the life of my parents, quietly discussed over... It could all have been so different...

I let every sentence hit me once more, and when that blow was dealt and began to ebb, I curled myself up in my blankets, looking at the small fire, its light blurring in front of my eyes as my tears fell.

It was like an endless mourning, such an ache...

Erebor and Dale. Lena, and Cillian.

Itô, Hergíl, and Svali – Svali...

My father and my mother...

There was no possible solace to that grief. What was lost was lost, and what was left soon would be...

I was just a boy. I could not keep Thráin's madness secret. I would not breathe a word, though. He was my father, despite everything that had happened, and he had saved my life twice, shielding me from the Dragon and carrying me away from the snow.

But I could not face him alone anymore, the mere thought made my heart race and freed my tears even more.

I wanted my brother, I wanted Frerin's smile back, I wanted to see his face shine again when his eyes crossed mine. I wanted Dís, her embrace around my waist and the soft, silken touch of her hair against my neck.

But most of all, that night – I wanted my mother.

I wanted her steadiness, her kindness, the way she had to touch me, cupping my face between her fingers – she had loved me so much. She had loved us all so much. And now, now that I was finally able to rest, to think about the horrors that had happened, now that I could finally give in to my feelings and acknowledge them...

I just wanted my mother, even after so many years.

I wanted my mother, and I wiped my eyes again and again, trying to calm myself down, but the fire was low when my tears finally stopped. I raised my knees and drew my arms against my chest, just like I did when I was a child, and frightened of the dark.

I had faced so much worse than the dark...

Slowly, my breath became more even. I watched the light of the lamp on the wall, small and steady, and as it faded away I fell asleep once more, curled up in Dwalin's bed, his mother's kiss still lingering on my forehead.

The next morning Óin came as he had done every day, even though I had not been able to remember him. He sat himself on my bed and pulled the blankets away, mercilessly exposing my frail body, his eyes black behind his thick eyebrows, the two braids of his dark beard carefully woven once more – yet his face was thin and he looked tired.

He had strived so much, during our exile, and it struck me suddenly that, though he was a cousin of ours too and actually belonged on Dís' drawing as much as Balin or Dáin, we had never really considered him as such. He was a healer, he was the one we never hoped to need, the Dwarf that would come and make us swallow bitter potions, rub our bruises with unguents and reduce broken bones. He was not tender, he did never really share his thoughts, and he was so much older... Or perhaps not.

He was older than Balin, true enough, but what really made him look aged and distant was his knowledge of suffering. Óin knew about agony and death, about pain and blood, about the terrible injustices of life, and he had long stopped to rage against them. He did not cry, not even when the Dwarflings died, and he never was afraid of Thráin, even though he sometimes needed Balin to be able to restrain him.

It struck me, suddenly, that Óin and Balin were actually close, though they never really showed it. Both were from the Iron Hills, both had a much younger brother – Óin's was called Glóin, and he was even smaller than Dís.

And I wondered if it was him that had kept him moving during our exile, if he had thought of his baby brother waiting for him where shelter lay, to be able to bear what he had witnessed...

"Take deep breaths, lad..."

He was listening to my chest, using a wooden tube he pressed to his ear, holding me upright with his left hand – I could feel his hard grasp around my hip. He frowned when I coughed once more, but I managed to breathe deeply, trying to make it easy for him, trying to show him I was stronger.

Óin pulled my tunic down on my back, with a rough move, and then he faced me, shaking his head.

"It's better, lad, but you are still far from hale. That cough is nasty, it will cling to your lungs for a while."

His hands felt for my ribs, brushing down my waist.

"No fever though, that is encouraging. But you need to put on some weight. Eat, lad. That's the best way to recover.

\- Is there enough...?"

I had whispered that question, not wanting Fundin's family to hear, and Óin's gaze clouded. He pulled the blankets back on my legs, resting one hand on my knee.

"Of course there is. There is enough to eat for everyone, until spring – then we will see to it. Grór and Náin will see to it. Don't you worry."

He looked at me and saw my gaze – so full of anguish despite his words.

"Thorin, lad, listen to me. I don't want you to worry, do you hear me? Issues about food, and shelter... they are none of your concern. Can you try to leave them to others – can you try to do that?"

I felt tears rise to my eyes once more – I hated that weakness, I hated the way my feelings just seemed to burst out, crashing down every boundary I had tried to build around them.

"And how do I do that, Óin?"

He knew. He had seen me leave the camp, come back with food, standing by Nár's and Balin's side, deciding with them how to ration it. He had heard me ask about safety issues, every night, ever since the Orc's attack. He had witnessed me as I discussed with Balin which road to take next, and we had buried many of our dead together. He had bandaged the wound of my arm, so many weeks ago – the burn I owed to the Dragon's breath.

He knew how these nine weeks had aged me, how old I felt inside, despite my young age, despite being only a boy.

He had long been forced to age the same way.

"You place your trust in others, Thorin...", he answered, and his hand brushed my knee, in a shy attempt to be gentle.

"You let those who are reliable act their part, now that you have support, now that you can be sure they will act wisely. And you rest. You deserve it, lad. You have strived more than enough. We all know it – we might be silent, but believe me, lad, no one has forgotten who led us here. No one has forgotten who our King truly was."

He whispered those words still looking at me and I froze, gazing up to him, my face pale. The same words Balin used. The same quiet statement. Not the reminder of a grim oath, but a calm acknowledgement.

I started to shake then. I reached out for Óin and he held me, somewhat awkwardly – he was not used to it, especially not from me, I was no hugging and loving Dwarfling, except with my siblings.

But that day I clung to Óin – my cousin the healer, whose words threw an appeasing balm on my mind and soul. I was not alone. It would never been forgotten – I could share this suffering with him, with Balin, with every Dwarf that had strived with us in our exile.

I did not have to speak about my father or grandfather in the Iron Hills – if no one asked, there was no use talking about it. But I could rely upon Óin, upon Balin, upon Nár... I could let things take their course quietly – I did not have to face madness alone, because I actually never had. They had been at my side, all these weeks, and they would stay at my side.

" _Maikhmin._..", I whispered, my arms wrapped tight around Óin's chest, and I felt his hands on my back – shy and awkward, so unsure when it came to emotions...

"No, lad. Thank _you_. Stay a boy a little longer, will you?"

I nodded, my eyes closed, burying my face in his shoulder.

"Come, lad, stop it, there are others who need me..."

His voice was rough and I knew he was just fighting back his own feelings. I let go of him and he looked at me, his black gaze soft and somewhat bright.

"Fundin told me you want to see your family. Do you feel strong enough? You could use a few more days of rest...

\- No. I want to go. I have to see them."

My voice was tiny but unwavering, and Óin nodded.

"Take Balin and Dwalin with you. And don't exert yourself. If you feel tired, you rest, if you feel breathless, you pause. I will make sure you are alright this evening, so mark my words, lad."

He left me, then, and I spent the rest of the morning getting ready, because everything required an effort – yet I was determined.

I bathed and washed my body carefully – and what a delightful feeling it was to feel the warm water on my skin, to feel the steam around me, watch its droplets on the bathtub's edge, knowing that I was safe again, between walls of stone...

And then I dressed, and Dwalin and his mother helped me look as I should, making sure I would keep warm, wrapping me in several layers of clothes that also helped to hide some of my thinness away.

She adjusted the grey woollen tunic around my waist and then she made me pull on a black leather jerkin. It had belonged to Dwalin some years ago but he had outgrown it, and it fitted me, making me look more like myself than I had been in days.

"What did you do with my clothes...?", I asked, shyly, as she helped me to adjust my belt around my waist.

It was the belt I had brought back from Erebor – somewhat faded and old, but still fit to be worn. I brushed it with my fingertips – it was a small reminder of home.

"I washed them. The tunic is old, so are the trousers, but they are there if you want them."

I nodded – it was silly, I knew, but still... I could not bear to throw them away.

"The leather jerkin however is lost, I fear. The snow damaged it too much, I'll see what I can do but I don't have much hope...

\- It doesn't matter...", I whispered. "It's just a jerkin."

She brushed my cheek and Dwalin said:

"I have your axe, your sword and your chainmail. I cleaned and sharpened them. They are in Balin's room.

\- And you will get them back another day", Dwalin's mother said. "You know where they are. Just make sure you come back.

\- I promise..."

I could not have carried my weapons anyway, and they all knew it. I had to rest for an hour after that, they forced me to lie down despite my protests. And I slept – quietly, dressed in Dwarven clothes again.

When I woke up it was late, much later than it should, but I felt rested and walked without help to the kitchen.

"Look at you...", Fundin said with a smile. "It is good to see you like that, boy, don't you agree, Balin?"

There he was, sitting next to Dwalin yet not touching him. His gaze was tired and there was sadness in the lines of his face – he looked so worn out, so worried...

He nodded, but he did not really met my gaze and I suddenly understood that he felt guilty, that Dwalin's words had reached him deep and that he had been torturing himself ever since.

I stepped up to him. I was almost as tall as him, and he was sitting anyway, resting his arms on the table, too shattered to stir. I made him turn, and he only yielded because he knew I had barely the strength to do so. I stood in front of him, I forced him to come closer, to put his arms around me, and then I drew his head against my chest, just like he had done for me on that stone wall behind the forge.

I buried my fingers in his thick brown hair and held his head against me, not speaking, not moving, only breathing, and I could feel his warm tears against my chest when he finally relaxed against me.

I was not crying. I just brushed his hair, and I looked at Dwalin, telling him silently that what had happened between Balin and me was not to be judged. It had happened, and it had been hard, and there had been death, but we were all alive and together, and it was the only thing that mattered.

And Dwalin understood. He reached out for his brother's shoulder, brushing it shyly, and at his touch Balin had a sob. He turned from me then, leaning into Dwalin's embrace instead, and I took some steps back, breathing fast, my heart racing.

I had done something good. This time I had not shattered anything.

I asked Balin to braid my hair, afterwards. I did not have the strength to hold my arms up for such a long time, and I did not want my braids to be messy and crooked, for it was the first time I would have to face Náin, and I owed him respect.

He put all his love into those braids. It was not very hard, it was not the complicated pattern that adorned my father's hair, and certainly not the rich net of braids that was displayed in Thrór's hair and beard. He gathered some of the locks around my temples and braided them on the back of my head, carefully, weaving Durin's pattern into my hair, and fastening it with my hair clasps.

And then he circled my face with the two, thin, tree-threaded braids that I had always woven, every day, since I was a little boy.

_Endure, treasure, protect._

Balin's fingers were nimble, as always, and the braids were perfect – regular, shiny, raven-black. He knew so much what it meant – he had done all that, he could have woven them into his own hair, he had endured so much, and he had treasured and protected us all.

He fastened the carved silver beads at their ends – silver from Erebor, carvings from the Lonely Mountain, and then he looked at me, his brown eyes meeting mine at last.

"There you go, lad..."

He bowed his head slightly and I smiled at him. He circled my waist and led me to a mirror, and I faced myself for the first time in weeks.

The Dwarfling that was looking at me – was it really me? Blue eyes that looked so bright in my hollow face – I was so young, so young still, but my face was so serious, the expression in my eyes so much older...

My hair fell in long raven waves upon my shoulders, circling my face and my neck, and it matched my jerkin and my trousers. Black, dark, sheathing that body I barely recognized.

I drew a deep breath and turned from that image.

"Let us go, Balin..."

They were walking at each side of me, Fundin's sons, Balin on my left and Dwalin on my right, as they led me to Náin's house, deep into the Iron Hills, across endless corridors.

There were no stairs here, only long passages and thick stone walls that muffled many sounds – they used iron wool here, I would discover it later, and it was a wonderful isolator, keeping the warmth inside and giving every family its privacy.

It was a long way and that day I had to focus on walking – I did not really bother to ask where I was, and to look around me. After the second corridor I felt cold sweat starting to drench my forehead, while my breath was getting short. Balin put his hand on my arm, making me stop, and I leant upon Dwalin, heavily.

"You want a ride?", my friend said playfully, once I had recovered a little, and I gazed at him, my face grim.

"Go on dreaming...", I whispered, still clutching his arm.

It was a matter of pride and honour not to stop again until we reached our goal, and we did not. Minutes after I was facing Náin's door at least, hearing Balin greet the guards – I could not greet them, I could not talk yet, my lungs were burning too much.

They looked at me, their gaze curious, and I gave them a small nod as we passed them. Once we were inside, there still was another corridor to cross, and this time Dwalin stopped.

"Hold on a little. Let's give him a break."

He grinned at me – I drew a deep breath and started to cough, unable to quench the fire in my lungs.

"Spit it out, sparrow."

I shook my head, I couldn't believe he dared making fun of me, and yet it was what kept me going.

"Get lost", I whispered, once I had enough breath again to do so, and he laughed, quietly, knowing I didn't mean a word of it.

When we entered Náin's home at last and went into the main room, the first thing I remember was the fire, where I could see Frerin's golden hair bent upon a table, his arm drawn around Dís' waist that was sitting next to him. He was facing Dáin – they were playing a game, black and white marbles facing each other, and my cousin had tried to amuse them with it. He always was close to Frerin, and he had taken pains to make him smile, to occupy his mind, never asking anything from him but keeping him from brooding thoughts.

Dís was the first to spot us and she jerked up with a swift, fierce move that made her hit the table and caused several marbles to fall on the floor, but she did not care.

She ran towards me, her small feet making no sound on the carpet, her cheeks red, her eyes bright, and I took some staggering steps to meet her, putting one knee down on the floor when she reached me – I could not lift her, but I wanted her against my chest, I wanted to feel her small body against mine...

She hit my body with a hard thump, almost knocking me down, she was so desperate to reach me, and when she drew her arms around my neck she almost choked me. I circled her waist with my arms, she was so thin, so slender... I wrapped her up in my embrace and pulled her close, so close, burying my face in her hair, kissing her again and again, whispering her name.

I was shaking, I could not withhold the tremendous relief I felt in finding her alive, unharmed, and still loving, still so close, still breathing...

"Dís...", I whispered, on and on, brushing her back with my hands, and her own small fingers found my face, touching my forehead, my cheekbones, my nose, my lips...

I could not get up, I could not even look up – I wanted that moment to last forever and I dreaded what would come next, what I would read in Frerin's face. Fear, hatred, anger, resentment...?

So I stayed keeling on the floor, holding my sister against me, hiding my face in her hair, and that is why I never saw him approach, never knew what emotion was dominant in his expressive features, in that face that had always been so easy to read...

Suddenly I felt other arms around my back, another warm and tiny body against mine, his chest against my shoulder blades and his cheek meeting mine. Golden locks found their way into the raven ones and as I leant at last into my brother's embrace, feeling my body sag against his, feeling my breath choke and my chest quiver because I was fighting back my sobs, I heard his voice, so earnest, so fierce.

"What in Durin's name took you so long?"

The sound that escaped my breast was strange – a cough, a sob, maybe the beginning of a laugh, too, it was so like him to scold me, to direct me, and I knew he was not angry, he was just pretending...

I turned my face a little bit and there it was, that clear, loving grey gaze that also looked so much older, so grave, so understanding... My breath hitched and Dís released me slightly from her embrace, always worried, always careful, but Frerin bent his face and touched my forehead with his, drawing us both against him.

"Just breathe."

They were both holding me upright, Dís against my chest and Frerin against my back, and they felt me shake, they heard me cough – I had no air left, I did not really know if I was breathing, coughing or crying, it suddenly seemed the same...

But in the end it stopped, and I was just there, kneeling between them, their arms around me, feeling whole again, at last. My eyes were closed and my heart was full – I was alive, and for the first time in days I could rejoice to be so.

"' _Adad_?", I asked, my voice soft, because I had to, because right now I had the strength to ask.

"He's better", Frerin whispered. "He's spending much time with Náin... He likes to be with him, his face shines when he sees him. And he recognizes us. He likes to hold us, Dís and me, even if he does not talk. I think he's happy to be in a Mountain once more..."

I nodded, I could not answer, there were still so many bad memories associated with Thráin...

"He misses you, _marlel_..."

Dís' soft voice came close to my chest and she raised her face towards mine, her gaze so gentle.

"He holds me against him, and sometimes he touches my hair and I know he asks for you. I told him you would come. I told him not to worry... Was it right, Thorin?"

She was looking at me, so anxious, so faithful, and I nodded again.

"Yes. It was right. I will see him as soon as I can..."

I was still leaning against them and they understood. They saw my drawn, pale face and knew I was still not ready. Frerin helped me to get up, and I suppose I greeted Dáin, but I only remember his firm embrace and the warm smile in his eyes as he led me to his father.

I greeted Náin then, thanking him for taking care of my siblings, thanking him for his hospitality, but he just waved my words away, crushing me against his chest, his bulky frame a rock against mine.

"Don't waste your breath, lad. You are all so, so welcome."

We sat down together after that, but I do not really remember that evening, or what we discussed. I think I was just sitting, never letting go of Dís, and feeling Frerin's presence around me, sometimes searching for his gaze and always finding it, a mute support, a new-found form of love in his grey eyes.

Dáin, Dwalin and Balin were all so close – I remember their touch, if not their words around us, and when Óin joined us, his stern face lightening up as he saw us together, that is when I thought about Dís' drawing once more.

For we were eight, not six cousins, and we were all together save Glóin who was still a baby – and it was such a treasure, worth a thousand times more than all the gold in Erebor.

Durin cousins. Tiny links of the same chain.

 

* * *

 **Neo-Khuzdûl translations** :

\- _maikhmini_ : be thanked (plural form), singular form : _maikhmin_

\- _'adad_ : father

\- _amrâl_ : love

\- _marlel_ : love of all loves, Dis' nickname for Thorin.


	2. Chapter 2

The worst wounds remain unseen. There is no visible scar to show, once your carefree childhood is only memory, once your mind has been engraved with images so terrible that they seem to erase every other thought. There is no wound to show when the Soul has been crushed.

Nor are there words to express that loss.

We had settled in the guest rooms in Dáin's house – Frerin, Dís and me in one room and my father close to Náin's, while my grandfather had other rooms in Grór's apartments. They had let Dís stay with us when it became clear that nothing would make her leave us to be looked after in the women's quarter – and Náin had never been able to refuse her anything.

So we shared that room – Frerin and me in the two-sized bed and Dís in a smaller cot, at least until the light was out. Then she would push back her sheets, cross the room noiselessly and slip under my blanket, wrapping her arm around me and nestling close to me. Frerin would already been circling my waist back then and so we would lie there, in that huge bed that had been made for elder Dwarves, tangled into each other's embrace. Clinging to each other, trying not to feel lost.

Clearly failing for me.

The first night I relapsed – there had been too many emotions, too much of a strain. I woke up in the middle of the night feeling hot and thirsty, my head and throat sore, only to find Frerin gazing at me. He had lit the small lamp close to our bed and stroked my hair when I tried to recover.

Dís was still asleep against my chest, holding me tightly, and I struggled to sit up.

"You are burning up...", my brother whispered, still stroking my hair. "Shall I fetch someone?"

How I loved that touch against my hot forehead... I bent my face slightly so that his palm could cup my cheek, it was so cool, so gentle...

"No", I whispered, careful not to wake Dís. "It's nothing.

\- Óin said you might become feverish again tonight. Don't worry, Thorin...

\- I don't..."

My voice was faint and my brother's hand left my face. He fetched me a glass of water and watched me drink, then he gave me something else to swallow. It was bitter and I shuddered, but I drank it nonetheless, and then I lay down again while Frerin stretched himself at my side, resting his head on his elbow while his other hand searched again for my face. His fingertips found my temple and he started rubbing my skin gently, making me shudder again.

"I am sure your head hurts. Mine always hurts when I am ill. You used to do that for me, do you remember?"

I let out a soft sound between a groan and a 'yes' – his fingers were so cool, they seemed to suck my fever away and eased the throbbing in my head. I had closed my eyes again, my face turned towards him – I had missed him so much...

"Thorin..."

Frerin's fingers shifted to my other temple and I could feel my body relax, despite the soreness in my throat and limbs. I opened my eyes, casting a hazy look upon him.

"Promise you will get better soon..."

His gaze was earnest and I sighed when he began again to rub circles into my skin.

"I promise..."

My voice was not above a whisper and I searched for his free hand.

" _Kudzaduz_...

\- Hmm?"

I wrapped my fingers around his, struggling to keep awake.

"Don't stop, please... Don't stop just now..."

I had mumbled that sentence in half-sleep and did not really notice if Frerin answered. His hand went on rubbing my skin and I sighed again, giving in to his touch and to sleep once more.

Those nights had a softness that made up for the day's struggles...

How do you go on, how do you manage to fit in once more, to behave like a boy when you have experienced the terrible weight that comes with adulthood? I can only answer for myself – I did not manage, not at all, and every day it seemed harder.

I was never very gifted with socializing and fitting in. I had been raised among the guards in Erebor – Balin was probably my closest friend there, actually... There were our teachers, the other warriors, Dagur, my father... I was always among them, always caught between lessons, trainings and other duties – because I was the heir, because it had been made clear to me very early what role I would have to fulfil once my time would come.

My grandfather had very high demands, he had raised my father in a hard, exacting and often unforgiving way. Thráin had been more tender – my mother had helped to soften him, and when I look back on my childhood, I think my father really tried to give me more than he had received. While my mother was alive, he had spent much time with us, much time with me actually – he trained me, he was the one who had shown me Dale... why would I need anyone when I had him and Balin to talk to?

And I had Frerin if I wanted to open up and to laugh, if I wanted to play or to explore, and Dís for tenderness and kisses that had indeed become scarce ever since my mother's death.

Being the heir of Durin's line built a barrier between me and the other Dwarflings, but I had hardly noticed it because I had so many obligations, and did not mind solitude – for I was secretive and shy, despite my fiery temper, and ill at ease with words once it came to friendship and feelings. I just did not know how to open up.

Frerin was the one who was all sparkling, funny and appreciated. With him at my side I had never much to do... He would do the talking and make people like him, and being with him I was automatically integrated in the group as well.

The only friendships I had managed to build myself were with Men, and elder Dwarves. It was easier to interact with them – you had to prove yourself, true enough, but with them it was a matter of skills, knowledge, strength and strategy. It had nothing to do with the scrutiny and ordeal you have to endure among Dwarflings – with them, what was important was to be funny, to have things to say, to have dreams, to laugh, to be always ready for mischief and adventure, to follow the general move...

Wit and humour were the keys, and I... I doubt I ever had much of those. And that winter in the Iron Hills, I was drained of the small amount of light-heartedness I had ever possessed.

As it was, for some days I only followed.

I followed Dáin and Dwalin, who took pains to show me their home, leading me through passages, corridors and floors, but carefully avoiding the forges – for Óin had forbidden me to go there, the iron dust was still poison for my lungs and he dreaded the shifts of temperature, for I was still recovering.

There were few staircases in the Iron Hills – the net Dwarves had woven here was stretched almost on one level, but the pattern of corridors seemed to be infinite.

It was not a single Mountain where Dwarves dwelt in different levels, yet somehow stayed together – the homes were apart of each other, separated by corridors, sometimes not even in the same Hill. But they were linked by that complicated web of corridors and passages, so that it was possible to cross the Iron Hills without getting out.

Dwalin's home was not far from one of the main entrances, close to the Red River that was running away from the Hills, its waters dyed scarlet by iron ore. For Fundin belonged to Grór's guard, and it was customary for those Dwarves to live close to the border so as to defend it better.

Dáin's home was more sheltered – carved deep into the Hills, in the centre of the now last remaining Dwarven stronghold. Easy to reach, for Grór and Náin were taking active parts into the Iron Hills' life, supervising the mining and forging for Grór, while Náin even worked with his kin in the forge, often taking Dáin with him.

I would see them work later – I would go with them down into the mines and around the furnaces, but not in the first weeks. The first weeks I recovered, and tried to pull myself together.

I followed Dáin and Dwalin, and I followed my brother, who had managed to make many friends in a few days, still full of spontaneity and genuine kindness, despite his broken sleep – for Frerin had suffered too, and would wake up nearly every night, plagued by nightmares about Orcs. He had not forgotten that night, it still weighed upon his mind, but he had that wonderful openness of heart that made him able to voice his feelings so as to face them.

"It- it's just that bad dream again...", he would stutter when he woke up drenched in sweat and shaking, searching for my arms that were already around him. "I still have it sometimes... Don't worry, it's just that... I have been so scared..."

He would search my gaze, giving me that pitiful smile that just broke my heart.

"I have decided to do more training. Dáin promised me. I told him about the Orcs, one evening. I told him I froze – you were not with us yet, and they would not let me come to you... He said I should not be ashamed. He said he had been scared to death as well, that day when he got injured in Erebor, and he promised to help me."

I was brushing his back, wondering why he had needed someone else's words to convince him, why mine had not been enough to give him back some peace...

"I won't ever let you face anything alone anymore."

His voice was earnest and he voiced them against my neck, his golden locks spread upon my breast once more.

"I was not alone..."

I had replied softly. My fingers had been running through his hair ever since he woke, but my moves slackened as I spoke – I remembered Itô's deadly dance, that night before the tent, I recalled her proud, black gaze, and the blue pattern of her tattoo between her eyes... The only way she had touched me had been through hard grasps and firm moves...

 _Not you,_ ubnadê _. You lead, we follow, and I am behind you, always._

_Mahizli._

She had saved me. Not only Frerin, or the Dwarflings. She had saved me from despair, from the snow, from getting mad with grief after Svali's death... she even had saved me from the fever's deadly grasp.

Dís had told me how she died. She would not speak of it at first, but I had asked several times – it mattered to me, I still felt so close to her, and Dís gave in to my questions, because I cared. I was so calm, those days in the Iron Hills, so calm and quiet, it worried those who knew me well. So when she saw how much it mattered, she told me. She waited for the evening, and then we sat on our bed, Frerin close to me and Dís facing me.

"The day you came back... She had already been carried here. She had been with Frerin and me, she had been taking care of us. She saw you arrive, she was looking out for you, and then she learnt you were ill. They would not tell us much more, but she insisted upon seeing you. She went to see you, she told me so the night she died. She went because she loved you. She said she had never followed a King who deserved it more – that it had been an honour to see you fight..."

I was looking at the blankets, not moving, not speaking. It was Frerin who reached out for my hand and clasped it.

"But you were burning. There was a deadly fire in you, and you were fading away. So Itô said – she said Mahal had to get it right this time. She asked me to tell you that it was better for a _batshûna_ to die than for you – because you still had enough teeth to entrance anyone with your smile or frighten foes away. She said she was old, and tired, and ready, and then she promised me she would bring you back. That night she kissed us both, and told us to leave her. And when morning came she was dead."

She held out her hand after that. I was still sitting motionless on the bed, my fingers cold and slack in Frerin's.

"She asked me to give you this. She said you would understand."

And in Dís' small palm I saw another ring. It was a woman's ring of heavy silver, with a wonderful carved motive in which I could discern Durin's crest. It was the kind of ring that had been given to Dwarrowdams who had helped to achieve battle victories, back in the times where we had faced the Drakes in the Grey Mountains.

"She said she would love to see it on your hand, Thorin."

I did not extend my hand at first. I was still looking at the blankets, holding on to these blankets of heavy, unadorned wool, because if I dared to think of something else... There was a tiny spot on them though, one that had not been there seconds ago, and as I gazed upon it another appeared. And another.

"Oh, _marlel_..."

Dís brushed my arm, gently, so gently, while Frerin circled my shoulders wordlessly. It was so rare for me to cry – it had hardly ever happened before the Dragon came, I used to be so strong, so master of myself... Now I did not even notice it when my tears fell. They just welled up in my eyes, unexpected and unwanted, and fell, silently.

But never outside that room.

I did not say a word, I did not look up to them. But I took the ring carefully, respectfully, once I had dried my tears, my fingers still slightly wet. Itô had had slender fingers, but my hands were thin and wasted, it fitted my ring finger perfectly.

Later I shifted it to my smallest finger – it is still there, I can feel its soft, cool embrace against my knuckle. I have never taken it off – I did not need it to remember her, but those days where I have wavered, where I have wondered why on earth I should keep struggling, there it was.

There were evils against which it was helpless, but most of the time it has always been a reminder of her firm grasp around my arm.

 _Lead on,_ ubnadê _, keep that head of yours upright._

"Are you alright, Thorin?"

Frerin's soft whisper brought me back to the present once more. He had woken, had had this nightmare once more, and I was the one supposed to comfort him.

"Yes... I am fine. Of course I am, _kudzaduz_."

But this time that fond word did not manage to fool him.

"And Dwarves are born out of rock and stone, Thorin."

He looked at me, some of his old playfulness in his eyes, but his face was worried. I withstood his gaze and he shook his head.

"You are unhappy. There is something weighing you down. Please tell me."

I almost smiled – and it would have been a very unhappy smile indeed. I could not even begin to list what was weighing me down... The fact that Itô had died for me and that I still did not manage to act gratefully and actually _feel_ alive, the fact that one day I would have to speak to Grór and Náin and that I dreaded their questions about my father and grandfather, and most of all the way I felt so helpless when faced with Dáin or Dwalin's friends.

I did not know what to say to them, I did not remember how to begin those conversations... Most of the time I just stood there, trying to listen, to interact, but I was never really able to focus, every once in a while my mind would drift off, to Erebor, to Dale... To those riverbanks we had roamed, to the tombs that were like milestones on that road...

Who could want to listen to that tale? Who could begin to understand that I could not push those images away and become again the Dwarfling I used to be? I did not even know how to talk about it to anyone – I was just lost. I did not know how to behave or who I was supposed to be anymore.

And today I had just shattered everything.

Frerin had not been with me – that one, single morning he had left my side because Náin's mother wanted to cut some clothes for him. She doted on him as if he was her own son, and had promised him a fur coat and a new training tunic, so Frerin had kept to their rooms, surrounded by Náin's mother and her friends, standing tall on a small chair so that they could alter the clothes, and chatting away with a good-humoured smile, perfectly content. And Dís was watching it all, laughing at Frerin's jokes and stories.

Frerin was such a tender one – he loved to be cuddled, to get embraces and some motherly attentions, he had missed them so much... I would have hated it, to have Dwarrowdams fussing around me, I already cringed when Náin's mother dared to ruffle my hair – so I gratefully accepted Dáin's invitation to meet up with his friends, and fled away.

The winter was dreary that year, and outdoor games were postponed for a while, so the Dwarflings were getting somewhat restless. The training room was always full, and they were mighty warriors in being, those youngsters in the Iron Hills. I watched them spar, I took a close look at their techniques that were different from the way I had been taught in Erebor. They were wonderful at holding their ground, they would regroup in formations of three or four and fight back to back, holding on to each other in deadly groups...

"You want to try?"

A tall, freckled Dwarfling was facing me, his green eyes taking in my face somewhat defiantly. I was leaning upon the wall, only watching, not talking, and he handed me a shield and a training sword.

But I shook my head – I did not feel able, I was still not strong enough, the other day I had tried to hoist Dís on my hip so that she could take a look outside the window, and had had to put her down after a few seconds.

"Thorin is incredibly fast", Dáin said, and I was surprised at the admiration showing in his voice. "You should have seen him in Erebor, Lóni. He spins and shifts, you never know where the blow will come from. And the obstacle course... I have never seen anyone crossing it so fast.

\- Oh yes?"

The other Dwarfling arched his eyebrows, still sceptical.

"Well I would love to see that, for sure... Right now I have not seen him do anything, Dáin, so I begin to think they do not know how to fight at all, in Erebor...

\- That is not true..."

I had whispered those words still backed up against the wall – I could not believe he was doubting us, that he was questioning our abilities in fighting... And yet – had we not lost, against the Dragon? Had we not been powerless to defend the Mountain...?

"Then prove it. Just take that sword and fight.

\- Lóni, let him be...", Dáin said, putting a hand on his arm, but he just pushed him away.

"No, I mean it – we'll see if he keeps that overbearing look, once he faces us, we'll see if he knows how to hold his ground..."

Overbearing – could he really think I was looking down on them? Was my face so wrong at expressing what I thought? I was so shocked I actually extended my hand to take that sword, not really knowing what I was supposed to do with it, but Lóni caught my hand before I touched it, because he had spotted Itô's ring.

"Look, everyone – Thorin has a sweetheart!"

He was chuckling now, his grin broad in his freckled face. There was a small space between his teeth... and suddenly I found myself burning with the desperate need to shatter them, one after the other, so that he would stop grinning.

"He's wearing her ring! It's a bit heavy for those tiny hands, don't you think?"

I pulled back my hand with a fierce move, my eyes turning black, feeling my muscles begin to ache – I was tense from trying not to hurl myself at him.

"Cut it, Lóni...", Dwalin threw in, his voice calm, and I crossed his gaze briefly.

_Don't, Thorin. It's not worth it._

I took a deep breath, trying to quench the fire starting to burn in my Soul.

"Did you kiss her, when she gave that one to you?"

He pursed his lips, mimicking a kiss, and the others around him giggled.

"It must have been so sweet..."

I hurled myself at him then, giving in to that burning, devastating hurt. I hit him with my whole body, knocking him down and falling with him, I weighed him down, crushing his chest with my knees, and what did I care if I was acting exactly like Thráin...

I grabbed his tunic with my hands and made the back of his head hit the floor, to erase that grin that had dared to make fun of Itô, once and for all. And then I hit him in the face.

He groaned and hit back – he had definitely stopped smiling and reached out for me, I could feel his blows against my ribs, almost taking my breath away, but I did not let go of him, and soon enough we were wrestling, a violent, terrible embrace, only seeking to hurt and destroy.

I was breathing fast and it made my chest hurt – but I did not cough, my teeth were gritted, and I fought with bare hands, determined not to let those words stand.

"Enough!"

Dáin's voice rang loud and I could feel other arms throwing themselves in our fight. Someone was grabbing me around the waist, pulling me away from Lóni, but it was not Dáin, Dáin was restraining his own friend who was glaring at me, his lips bloody and his breath shallow.

"He's mad!"

His words barely reached me, I was too busy fighting those arms that prevented me from silencing him – I kicked and struggled, I writhed my body, and in the end I just let myself fall. It was an old ruse that had served me in the past, and the one holding me released his grasp indeed, taken by surprise. And I used it to break free from his embrace, jerking out of his arms, running again towards Lóni.

But the iron grip caught me first. Holding me, making me spin so as to face my new opponent that was crushing me against his chest.

"Thorin, damn it..."

It was Dwalin, and I froze in shock for a second, but then I started struggling again, though I wasn't really sure what for anymore.

"Let me go!", I hissed, trying to break free.

"Thorin, _calm down_...", my friend said, and his words went through me like knives.

He was taking Lóni's side, he was not backing me up...

"Let me _go_!"

I hit him, then, I hit his chest with my fists, just like that other day in Erebor, my gaze burning and my body shaking.

"Thorin..."

Dwalin had caught my wrists, both of them in one of his broad hands.

"Thorin, stop it...

\- She's _dead_! She's _dead_ , you filth!"

I had hurled those words at Lóni, not at Dwalin, I had spat them out like a curse, I was still struggling, trying to free my hands.

"She died, you little piece of... You..."

My voice broke but I did not cry, I was too hurt, too angry, too overwhelmed.

"She was not my lover! What do I care for a lover, I don't need one, I'll never have one!"

Dwalin was still holding me and I did not notice the silence that had fallen all around us, I was only aware of my own breathing and my pain.

"She was a fighter. She was a _batshûna_. She fought ten thousand times better than all of you, she would have broken your neck and shattered your teeth and you would just have watched her reach out for you, because you know nothing! You all know _nothing_!"

My eyes were ablaze, I was still half crushed against Dwalin but I did not struggle anymore, I was just breathing fast, my fists still balled against his chest.

"Let me go", I whispered. "Just let me go, Dwalin. I won't touch him. I don't even want to touch him anymore."

He wavered for an instant, but my voice had dropped to a calm, desperate murmur, and I had stopped fighting him. He slowly let go of my wrists, and then he freed my waist from his grasp. I faced him for some seconds, wondering what I felt, what I wanted... I did not know anymore, probably just nothing.

And then I turned. Towards Dáin who was still holding Lóni's arm, Lóni whose face was aghast and burning with a glow I recognized as shame. But it did not give me any joy.

"I wish she was still living. I wish I didn't have to wear that ring. I am sorry if I hurt you. But you deserved it."

My voice was toneless, so calm – I did not recognize it, it was as if another had spoken. I turned from them, then, I left that room, slowly, not running away this time, just leaving, not knowing where to go but yearning to be alone at last.

And my feet carried me to the only person that would never judge me – the one that had passed on that raging fire to me, whose madness was even worse than mine...

I did not even think of entering Thráin's room – I did not tell anyone, I did not brace myself or prepare what I could say to him... I just walked back to Náin's apartments, avoided the rooms where I could still hear animated chatter, and searched for Thráin.

I opened the door and slipped in, noiselessly, and then I leaned upon the door, facing my father who was sitting quietly at a desk, carefully mending his chainmail – madness never deprived him of any of those dearly acquired skills, and Náin was taking great care keep them honed, hoping that the familiar moves would help bringing him back to himself.

Thráin looked up and his gaze found mine – and I was barely able to stand, I felt so shattered, so broken inside... He let go of the chainmail, slowly, and I heard the soft sound of metal against wood, and then the noise of the chair he was drawing back.

He was looking at me, slightly frowning, and there was no mistaking the concern in his face. He stopped several steps away from me, still doubtful, and then he opened his arms, with a slow, guarded gesture.

And I just threw myself into them – I was not afraid of him anymore, we were the same, we were just as broken, we both lashed out and shattered everything around us...

He caught me around the waist and I heard him draw a deep breath as he held me against him. I buried my face in his chest and I could feel his hands on my hair, trying to confirm his lingering doubts, trying to reassure himself...

" _Dashat_...?"

Thráin's voice was brittle – he had not spoken for days, and his body was shaking against mine, despite his strength and the firm grasp of his embrace.

I did not answer, I just clung to him, and somehow Thráin understood. He understood that something was wrong with me, terribly wrong, and his hand brushed my back, gently, soothingly, during endless minutes, and I could feel his breath against mine.

He led me to the chair – he had to drag me with him actually, because there was no way my face would leave his chest, and in the end he sat down on it, placing me on his lap with a tender gesture, his face still searching for my hair.

His hands felt for my body, not confusing me with another this time, but clearly taking in my thinness – and it pained him, I could feel him draw another shuddering breath.

"Food...", Thráin murmured, trying to make me pull away from him so as to look at me. "Eat, _dashat_."

I shook my head and raised my face, meeting his gaze that was so worried, so bright and caring.

"I am eating, ' _adad_ – I don't need food, there is enough, do not worry."

But my voice broke as I spoke and I had to hide my face again, pressing it against his chest. Thráin circled my waist with his arms, drawing me against him.

"Óin?", he whispered then, his voice questioning, and I felt his fingers in my hair again, the back of his hand searching for my face.

"I am not ill, _'adad_ , I am... I am..."

My breath choked, and Thráin began to rock me gently, as he had done when I was small – I do not know what he was thinking, if he really was aware of my age and of the fact that I was not a child anymore... But he remembered. He remembered he had a son, he remembered what had always helped when I was distressed, and so he rocked me, and he bent down and kissed my hair, breathing in my scent as he did.

"I have done something terrible, _'adad_... I am so sorry... I am so sorry... I am such a bad Dwarf, ' _adad_... I only know how to fight, I only know how to kill and hurt... I am so sorry..."

Thráin froze against me – what was I thinking of, to speak to him like that, it would only unsettle him and he could not understand... But when he bent again towards me his tone was gentle.

"Not bad. Not only fighting."

He brushed back my hair and I heard his deep voice, gently vibrating against my own chest – he was humming. He was singing something to me, in a low, dreamy voice. The song I had played for him on those forlorn hills, after that bloody night...

Durin's song, that had helped to give him back some peace...

" _Dashatê_..."

Thráin's voice was so tender, so soft – his hands were so warm against my back... I did not want to leave that refuge, I would never leave those arms anymore, I would just stay with him and cling to him and what did I care if I was called mad, if he was called mad – it did not matter anymore.

Nothing mattered anymore.

My uncle was the one who was able to make me leave that room. Náin was a sharp-minded, caring, warm-hearted Dwarf, just like his son, and he was very attached to Thráin. He came to him several times a day and always made sure to spend some hours with him, keeping him company and talking to him just like in the old days.

"I did not know you had a visitor, Thráin..."

Náin's voice was warm and it made me lift my head from my father's chest, while Thráin's arm tightened slightly around me. I faced my uncle, and suddenly it mattered again – I could not let him see me in that wretched state, what would he think of me...?

I tried to pull away from my father but Thráin kept me against him, stroking my hair again.

" _Dashatê_ ", he repeated, and this time his voice was firm and brightened by his smile.

Náin looked at me, and his eyes gave a spark of pleasure at hearing Thráin's voice again. He stepped up to him and squeezed my arm, briefly yet fondly.

"Yes, Thráin. A fine lad you have here, and the others are just as precious. What is his name? What do you call him, Thráin – a hothead, a little nuisance, the apple of your remaining eye?"

Thráin was laughing – my father was laughing silently, I could feel his chest quiver against mine.

"Thorin", he said, his voice low but decided. "Thorin."

He pressed a kiss on my head, and then he brushed back my hair, gently pushing me away with a little tap on my shoulder.

 _Go and play now,_ dashatê _, I love you, but I have duties to attend to._

I understood. It did not make much sense here, and his mind was probably caught somewhere in my childhood, maybe he even thought himself in Erebor – but he looked happy, he was talking again, what was the use of burdening him more with my feelings...

I left the room then, I entered ours and stayed there for the rest of the day. So silent that no one noticed I was there, and that it was evening when I finally had to face people again.

I did barely speak at dinner, and I avoided Dáin as much as I could – not meeting his gaze, not talking to him, and fleeing to our room as soon as the meal was over. My cousin did not breathe a word about what had happened in the training room, and had I dared to cross his gaze I would probably have found only gentleness and concern – but I fled.

And now – now that Frerin was facing me, trying to find out how he could help me, how he could ease some of my pain, I was again at a loss for words.

"Tell me, Thorin..."

Dís mumbled something in her sleep and turned, throwing her arm upon my stomach – such a tiny little arm, I pushed it back in the blankets, careful to keep her warm.

"Frerin, am I overbearing?"

The words had left my lips unexpectedly – so strange that it should have been that small remark that led me to talk to him...

Frerin recovered slightly to gaze at me, and I felt his hair brush the skin of my neck.

"Who told you so? Dáin? Dwalin?"

I shook my head and Frerin sighed.

"Why is it always so _difficult_ with you? Of course you are not, silly, except with me and that is fine – I know you cannot manage without me anyway..."

He smiled at me, but when he saw I was not even reacting to his joke he frowned, paused for a while and then resumed speaking.

"It takes some time to know you well... I mean, not for me – I know you just like the hair on my head, with all your tangles and knots. But for others, obviously – Mahal, it can be hard sometimes.

\- What do you mean?"

My voice was tiny, I was feeling icy – if Frerin agreed with Lóni, if I lost his support, then I was alone, completely alone, and that thought made me shiver.

"I mean you can look intimidating. You don't talk a lot, Thorin, you know... You are often silent, and I know it's just because you prefer listening, or following your own thoughts, or because you don't really know what to say. And then when you speak it's often to the point – sometimes it's harsh, but it's often right, so... people, especially young ones, they are often a bit afraid of you. And then you are such a warrior, everyone knows you have taken down that Warg while you were only twenty, so it's even more intimidating. It takes some time to spot your soft, warm side – but once it's done, people will follow you through Udûn's flames, be sure of it..."

He was such a treasure, my _kudzaduz_... He was smiling, holding me and loving me, not knowing what a terrible Dwarf I was, how fiercely I had behaved that day, justifying every fear and distrust indeed...

"I hit Lóni", I whispered. "I hit him today. He made fun of Erebor, and of Itô's ring. So I struck him down. And when Dáin and Dwalin separated us, I hit Dwalin too... I wanted to shatter Lóni's teeth, and he prevented me from doing it, but I struck him..."

Frerin let out a deep breath and I realized with some shock that he was laughing. He was pressing a hand against his mouth and was shaking with laughter, silently, careful not to wake Dís.

"Mahal, Thorin, I wish I was there to witness it! Damn that stupid fur coat, why did I have to miss that?!"

He pulled away from me, he actually left the bed, wiping away tears of laughter, and I just stared at him.

"Oh dear, Thorin – and that's why you are so miserable, looking all pale and wretched?! Did you do a thorough examination of conscience, did you decide already that you were such a bad, terrible Dwarf, not even deserving to breathe, or are you still stuck at the state where you think no one understands you and that it is all well because you are not fit to be anyone's friend?"

I was looking at him, still shocked, sitting motionlessly in the bed, watching him stifle his last outbursts and then come back to me, locking forearms with me, still smiling.

"I don't like Lóni. He's the one who deserves to be called overbearing – ever since I met him, he has been bragging about those Hills and depreciating Erebor. He has not even seen the Mountain and I doubt he even knows where it is – he only thinks of iron and fighting formations. I'm glad you thrust some of his words back into his throat, because you did, I'm sure of that..."

He brushed my arms, his voice getting warmer and I – I could feel some of the terrible guilt and sadness being drawn away from me, like poison from a wound.

"That idiot is probably just jealous... But the thought of you hitting Dwalin – Mahal how it must have looked! I bet he was just standing there, wondering what in Durin's name had got into you, and only thinking how he could make you stop without crushing your bones!"

He was laughing again, clearly waiting for me to join in, but I could not. So he squeezed my arms, fondly.

"Dwalin is not made of sugar, Thorin. Of every Dwarf here, he's probably the only one able to hold you back when you throw yourself into one of your rages... He's your friend, he loves you – I bet he's only sorry to have seen you so upset.

\- Why would he...?"

My voice was low and Frerin made me lift my chin so as to face him.

"Why would he what – care for you? Love you? Because you are a stubborn, fierce, passionate but high-principled, caring, brave, smart and loving Dwarf. Deep inside. After a closer look of course."

His grey eyes were bright and sparkling, I could see them shine even in the darkness of our room, and in the end I smiled. A small, shy smile, tiny and fragile – but a smile nonetheless.

"Come on, Thorin. Stop torturing yourself, will you?"

He pushed me back on the bed, settling once more against my chest. And I wrapped my arms around him, eventually, thinking that I could indeed not do without him – and that Frerin was the one deserving to be loved and admired.

I did not know how to face the next day, but Frerin made it possible for me to face the night and get some rest. Morning would come soon enough, but I was not alone, I had someone who knew every inch of my Soul and still thought I was worthy to be loved...

So I did as he told me. I closed my eyes and stopped thinking – and sleep came soon enough, for those nights were soft.

Those nights were a reminder of that tent we had all helped to keep upright, despite the hardships and the horrors of the road – and it helped, to know that during these hours at last, I could talk and share some of my pain with Frerin.

He laughed softly, once more, against my chest, mumbling something that sounded like "shattering his teeth indeed...", and I had to smile again, before I rested my face against his hair and closed my eyes at last.

Such were the first nights of our stay – a small tent in the shadows, and whispers in the dark.

 

* * *

 **Neo-Khuzdul translations** :

\- _kudzaduz_ : tiny golden coin, Thorin's nickname for Frerin

\- _ubnadê_ : my leader

\- _mahizli_ : remember

\- _batshûna_ : ancient silver-lady, in my universe also a battle distinctions for Dwarrowdams fighting Drakes in the Grey Mountains, when Thror became King.

\- _marlel_ : love of all loves, Dis' nickname for Thorin

\- _dashat(ê)_ : (my) son.


	3. Chapter 3

" _Steel of high quality was produced in ages as early as Durin the Deathless, according to some sources, for there are evidences of the use of crucible technique even before Khazad-Dûm._ _High-purity wrought iron, charcoal, and glass were mixed in a crucible, heated until the iron melted and absorbed the carbon, leading to unbreakable steel_..."

I was sitting on the floor in our room, alone once more – Frerin had smiled at me in the morning and had hugged me tightly, but he understood it was better to leave me. I still did not feel able to face anyone save Dís and him, and had excused myself for the day – it was so easy, no one was asking anything from me anymore...

But Balin had come, earlier on, he had sat a while with me, as gentle as ever – he did not know about Lóni, of course, but he knew my father was talking again and that I had helped, somehow. He did not stay long, only to assure himself I was fine and to bring me that book I had asked for earlier – I was curious about the forges, I still managed to summon interest for that...

And my looks must not have pleased him so much, for when he left he brushed my cheek.

"Don't read too much, lad... Those eyes still look tired to me..."

I thanked him, I smiled at him – but I heard Balin's sigh as he left the room, closing the door softly behind him. And I had settled on the floor, between the bed and the wall, determined to read and to overcome that slow, terrible inertia that had invaded me, depriving me of all energy and fire.

"Hey, you..."

Dwalin's warm, gruff voice startled me, making me look up. I had not heard him knock, I had been lost in brooding thoughts once more, still gazing at the book that lay open in my lap.

"Light upon your day...", I whispered, and Dwalin rolled his eyes.

"Mahal, are we on formal terms now?!"

He stepped up to the small space where I was still sitting, my knees raised, my bare feet resting against the cool stone.

"Shift a little, will you?", he asked, gently pushing my knees so that he could sit down next to me.

"Ever heard about socks? Your feet are icy – what was the general idea of all this, catching death with cold... or boredom?"

He had pulled my legs towards him again, placing my feet between his knees so as to warm them up, and he picked up the book on my lap, frowning.

"Durin's beard – _Early iron-working: harmonizing the hard and the soft_...?!"

His brown eyes searched for mine and he shook his head.

"My brother is such an idiot sometimes. So that's what he fetched for you? Sometimes I wonder if Balin was not born already with a mind of sixty...

\- I asked him for it..."

I was still sitting, my feet locked between his knees, feeling compelled to defend Balin. He had tried to cheer me up in his own, dear way – he knew it was hard for me to be away from the forge, and I had always been so eager to learn... This book was his way to tell me he still thought me able, he could not help it if it was hard to read and without any room for dreams or fantasy...

Dwalin raised his eyebrows.

"And? You enjoyed your morning reading?"

He squeezed his knees just a tiny bit and I could feel some of the ice clutching my heart starting to melt away.

"Yes", I said, my voice firm.

"Fine."

Dwalin flipped the book open.

"What's the first chapter about? The one I suppose you were reading with utter delight before I happened to come in to save you...

\- It's about the history of heating up iron, about bloomeries and blast furnaces and how we managed to improve our skills to produce iron of better quality."

He arched his eyebrows once more, looking at me. And I could not suppress a half smile, shy yet reaching my eyes.

"Oh boy, you actually _read_ that one – the second, then...

\- It's about the way to heat up iron so as to produce steel..."

Dwalin huffed and shook his head.

"Mahal forgive me to say so, but you are the strangest Dwarf I know, except my brother. Don't you know that already – I mean, heating up iron, and working with it, Thorin, haven't we all been in the forge ever since we could hold a hammer? Why do you bother with what happened centuries before...?"

I shrugged my shoulders and looked down.

"Hey..." – Dwalin put a hand on my knee and shook it gently. "Don't get upset. I just want to understand."

I turned towards him, wondering if I should answer – if I should share my thoughts with him, if he would not laugh at me.

"Same for me. I want to understand. I want to be able to master our skills and the knowledge behind it, so as to be able to work and build up our trade wherever I am. I don't want that knowledge to get lost. We are still the best at it... Those Men, Dwalin, they are centuries behind us. They still use bloomeries and it took me a while to understand how that simple, archaic device was actually _working_... It hurt, to have to waste so much ore, to produce weapons and tools of so low a quality – they would just break against ours..."

Dwalin was looking at me and his gaze had softened.

"It is so strange to see that, be we Dwarves or Men, we take the same path in improving our skills – we used bloomeries before, it's just that we are miles ahead on that road compared to Men. And it is not fair, but we still cannot share our knowledge with them – where would we be? How would we still be strong and respected? As it is, I suppose we can rest assured to forge weapons for them for many centuries more, and I suppose it is right..."

I had stopped looking at him, I was holding the book between my fingers, my thumbs brushing the leather cover – my words were just pouring out of my Soul then, leaving my lips unchecked.

"Thank Mahal there is the forge, and the anvil..."

The gentle touch on my skin raised me once more from my thoughts – I had almost forgotten I was actually talking to Dwalin, and he had laid his hands upon my forearms without a word. He knew I was seeing the road again, all those small forges where we had worked, exchanging our craft for food...

We stayed silent for a while, and then Dwalin said, his voice firm:

"Alright, enough of book-perusing. Grab your socks, pull on your boots and get your fur-coat. We are leaving."

I gazed up at him, puzzled.

"What do you mean, we are leaving?

\- I mean we are taking a walk. You have been indoors for too long, your face has the same shade as that bunk of faded parchment.

\- It is called a _book_."

I was struggling with my half-smile again and Dwalin grinned at me.

"Never heard of that one before. Come on, move it. It will be just you and me, no need to begin to think of an excuse..."

I opened my mouth but no words came out.

"Shall I free you, your Highness? Did those royal feet warm up a bit?

\- Just stop it..."

He squeezed my feet once more and I bent towards him, pushing him back against the wall.

"I said stop it... They are getting numb, you oliphaunt."

He freed me then, with a grin, and watched me pull on socks and boots.

"You'll need something warmer", he said, and I dressed in one of the thick woollen tunics his mother had given me.

"And those as well."

He handed me thick gloves and the fur-coat Dáin's mother had made for me.

"Where are we going?", I asked, and Dwalin just smiled.

"You will see."

We left the Iron Hills then, through a stone door that led us outside between tall and sharp rocks, covered in ice and snow. The wind was icy and it made me blink, stinging my eyes and biting my cheeks, but my fur coat was warm and my clothes thick.

I froze, nonetheless, when my gaze fell on the wide, white landscape that I could spot from where I stood, cowering like an ashen sea at the feet of the Hills.

"Are we going down there?"

I had managed to keep my voice even but Dwalin still read my fear.

"No. I'm not taking you down there. Our path lies through the Hills, we won't leave the rocks."

He linked his arm with mine, with one of his easy-going moves, shouldering the bag he was carrying, and I noticed he had no weapon save for a knife that was fastened on his belt.

It makes my heart soften still, when I think about the way we must have looked, both of us... Dwalin, tall, dressed in brown furs, his steps broad and assured, his brown gaze keen and sparkling, leading on through the rocks but always careful not to push me too far, often slowing down because he noticed I struggled to keep up.

And I, still smaller than him back then – I would catch up, eventually, almost, we would look eye to eye to each other afterwards... I, following him, trusting him, gazing up to him when we stopped, my fingers locked around his arm, searching for his warmth...

Mahal knows I led, I have had to lead many times in my life – I already did that winter, but back then... We were in his own lands, and I was completely lost, I was like a bird that had forgotten how to fly and desperately lashed out at everyone who tried to help – yet yearning, oh so yearning for someone brave enough to tame me...

Those days, despite everything I had been through, despite all the experience and suffering and forced-on maturity, I still felt younger than him, those few summers he had more than me still showed, on his body but also in that calm assurance I would try to reach later.

Try, and never reach. The assurance yes, but his calm – that rare, unobtrusive peace of mind and Soul – I could only envy him, and admire him for achieving it.

Dwalin did not consider me as his younger cousin, he did not treat me as such, but that winter he was so much stronger than me and I was so shattered... He just could not prevent himself from acting like the elder brother I never had.

I have often wondered what my life would have been, had I not been the eldest. If for example Frerin had been the heir, and I the one following, the one resting in his shadow... But that thought I have always pushed away in horror. I did not even want to picture that weight upon Frerin's shoulders – I would never have exchanged with him.

But Dwalin gave me a glimpse of what could have been. Of what it would have been like, to have someone leading, deciding, strong and unwavering... Of what it was like to rest, to put down that crushing burden, be it for a moment.

"We are rounding the Hills, are we not? We are going east..."

Dwalin turned his face towards me and his eyes gave a spark.

"And how would you know that, your Highness?

\- Stop that..."

I gave him a little shove, or rather tried – I was the one losing my balance, my feet slipped on the ice-covered stone and Dwalin caught me.

"Hey, hold your ground..."

His voice was gentle and he squeezed my shoulders, smiling when I shook myself free.

"Why are you calling me that?

\- Calling you what?"

Dwalin had arched his eyebrows in false innocence. We had stopped, between the high rocks, and the lights and shadows woven along those walls seemed infinite.

"You know what I mean..."

I was facing him, looking up to him, and Dwalin smiled again.

"Because I love to see you rage... It's just so precious – there you stand, your eyes ablaze, your body still as the ground before the earthquake, and when one expects it last, when everyone's thinking you actually don't mind, there it comes, Thorin's supreme fury..."

He was laughing now, laughing at me – my eyes were indeed bright and burning, but this time I was not raging.

"I am sorry I hit you...", I said, my voice not above a whisper. "I did not mean to... I had no right to...

\- You call that hitting?"

Dwalin huffed, shaking his head.

"Come on, you did not even aim... That was definitely the easiest beating I ever got, you were even better with it at ten..."

He watched my face fall and stepped up to me. I was looking at the ground, wishing I could disappear into it, but Dwalin put his hands on my shoulders.

"Hey... I'm just teasing you. I know it had nothing to do with me. I just wish I could have guessed before... You should not have had to speak of that...

\- No..."

I shook my head, trying to keep my voice even.

"It... it felt right. It... relieved, somehow. To speak of her. It helped."

I still did not manage to look up and Dwalin brushed my shoulders.

"Then I am glad", he said quietly, and then he linked his arm with mine, resuming our walk.

"So, how do you know we are going east?", he asked, eventually, and I could hear the soft noise of our footsteps as we trod on.

"The river is running south, and we left it on our right. And then – there is this spike over there that looks like a boar's muzzle, _Galtul'abad_ , I believe, it's right in front of us, which means we are going east and rounding the Hills as we do."

Dwalin cast an incredulous look upon me.

"But Thorin, you never came here. I thought you were guessing by sunlight..."

I looked up at him then, and this time I was not shy to cross his gaze.

"I made Balin tell me everything he knew, about the Hills. I dragged out every map we had in Erebor, and we spent hours discussing them. I wanted to know where you lived. How it looked like."

He stopped again and this time his face was troubled.

"Why didn't you just come?", he asked. "I was waiting for you to come. I was dreaming of showing it to you, I kept inviting you in my letters, and though you always wrote you could not wait for it, there were no plans made, never... I have wondered, actually, if you had not changed your mind and did not dare to tell me..."

I would never have thought of it, but Dwalin _did_ look unsure, and somewhat sad, and I could not bear to think that it was because of me. Not because of what I had done, but because of what I had not been able to do.

"I never _ever_ changed my mind", I said, firmly. "I don't say or write things I don't believe, I would never lie to you. So that's why they call me overbearing? Because I said I wanted to come but didn't? They thought I was looking down on the Hills, maybe?"

My voice had turned fierce once more, and Dwalin shook his head.

"Thorin, I never discussed your letters with anyone. What do you take me for? I told you before, you should stop caring about what people say about you, especially if they are called Lóni... His words are always fire in the bush...

\- But you backed him up."

I was facing him again and there was hurt in my eyes – I could not stand the thought that he had seen me only as a distant friend, playing at him with empty promises...

"I did _not_ ", Dwalin said, with a huge, exasperated sigh. "Mahal, Thorin, why do you always question everything just because things don't go exactly your way?! Did I help Lóni to beat you up? Did I laugh with them? Did I say anything to you except that you should calm down?

\- But that is backing him up! That is calling me mad, that is saying aloud and in front of everyone that I did not behave as I should, that he did not deserve it!"

Savage little me, facing my friend between high rocks, in that icy wind stinging my eyes...

"I am not mad, do you hear me? I am not doing things or saying things without a reason, nobody has the right to say I am insane!"

I was shaking now and Dwalin held up his hands, palms up.

"Hey, hey, hey... Don't get carried away now – you are twisting everything, you are mixing everything up and my mind is probably sluggish, I'm sorry, because I can't follow...

\- I am _not_ mixing everything up!"

I had shouted, clenching my fists, I did not even know why I was feeling so angry, it had all started so peacefully, how on earth did I manage to shatter everything once more?

"Stop treating me like a child!

\- Then in Mahal's name stop behaving like one!"

Dwalin had growled the words at me in that calm tone that always betrayed his anger – he was young still, and even his patience had its limits.

"You want to think everyone's against you – fine. You want to yell at me and hit me and just pour out on me whatever is eating you away – fine, just go on. But don't you dare telling me how I should think about you. And I think right now you are so hurt and confused and angry that there's no point talking. Mahal, Thorin, I held you back only because I did not want you to get hurt – I have almost seen you _die_ , I have been there when your breath choked and your body went still, do you think I can bear to see you throw yourself in such a rage that your lungs sound like a broken bellows while you waste away every dearly acquired strength in a pointless fight? Damn it, I was just worried, you idiot!"

He shouldered his bag and just started walking, leaving me behind – I was frozen on the spot, just gazing at his back, my anger gone, replaced by numbness once more.

"Well?"

Dwalin's voice echoed between the rocks, he had turned back, his eyes still dark but his face calmer.

"Come on now, we haven't got all day!"

He waited until I joined him and grabbed my arm again – and his grasp was harder this time but as caring as ever.

We walked in silence for about an hour – I was still pondering his words, and Dwalin could spend ages without talking, that is one of the things I have always appreciated so much in him, that I never had to worry about words with him, that there was always enough room for my thoughts.

But he was mindful, and probably felt bad about my well-deserved lecture, so in the end he was the one to resume talking.

"So, are you still sulking?"

There was a half-smile in his voice and he squeezed my arm. I shook my head wordlessly, actually I was getting tired – I would never acknowledge it, but I needed to sit down for a while, my legs were getting unsteady and I was sweating.

"Good. Because I am hungry."

He looked out for a spot and soon found it, between two rocks that helped to shield us from the wind's bite. We sat down, and I leaned against the cold stone, watching him get a fire done and then unpacking his bag.

"There, eat this first, you need some sugar in your body."

He handed me a thick slice of his mother's oatcake and I could not suppress a genuine smile – I loved it. I always loved it. I ate, and the shaky feeling in my limbs abided slowly as I did. I wiped the sweat on my brow, watching Dwalin place some potatoes between the embers, and starting to roast the sausages he had carried with him.

"I am driving you a bit hard, I'm sorry. But once there you'll love it.

\- Thank you..."

Maybe it was because I was tired, and had no energy left to rage anymore. Maybe it was because I was with him, as I had always wanted it – sitting with him somewhere in the wild, just the two of us, without having to pretend. Maybe it was because I was watching the pains he was taking to keep me warm and fed, yet never alluding to my weakness. But suddenly I talked.

"I did not come because I could not. I could not leave Erebor. No one forbade me to go, but... I was not feeling able to leave. I did not want to leave my father, and Frerin and Dís dealing with... with Erebor."

My voice drifted off at the end, it was the closest I could get to the truth without alluding to my grandfather's behaviour.

But Dwalin ever was a shrewd one. He handed me my share in a rounded iron bowl, but he waited until we had both finished and were cleaning the bowls with handfuls of snows, before asking:

"You mean, dealing with Thrór?"

I froze against the rock, feeling my face turn pale. I gathered more snow, cold sweat drenching my back at the thought that I had just betrayed my King, and I went on cleaning my already spotless bowl, focusing on that small, iron tool, so simple yet so well-made – a Dwarven tool, an iron Dwarven bowl...

"Thorin, it's alright. It's just you and me. I never spoke of it and never will. But nobody's blind, we have long known that something was strange with him – his letters and orders were getting confused, and there were always hurried messages from your father to contradict them. Erebor – it was nothing like heaven those past years, I bet..."

I was taking deep breaths, still ghastly pale. I was afraid to be sick, suddenly, and my grip around the bowl slackened – it fell on the ground with a dull metallic ring.

He knew – they all knew. They had long known it – and my father's life had probably been a nightmare for the past two years, no wonder his mind had crumbled... I had only acted his part for two months, and I already was beside myself, clinging on to whatever broken pieces remained of me after that...

"Hey... It's alright, Thorin, it's alright."

Dwalin reached out for me and held me against him, steadily, not crushing me this time, just holding me, and I rested my face against his shoulder, covered in sweat, yet feeling my nausea abide slowly as he brushed my back.

"What does he say...?", I whispered eventually, and Dwalin paused, puzzled. "What does my grandfather say...?"

I was not looking at him. My cheek rested on his fur coat and my body felt weak. He knew. They all knew. They had long known. So many efforts to keep the obvious hidden – so many strengths shattered, such a waste...

"I would not know", Dwalin said softly. "My father is a guard, Thorin. Grór would not confide in him as much so as to tell him...

\- Your father is Grór's nephew, and a Dwarven-lord too...", I whispered. "He is not just a guard. Neither is Balin. Balin was never just a guard to us..."

Dwalin brushed my back again.

"I know, Thorin. But still – there are things even close cousins do not discuss when it comes to family... and kingship...

\- Why...?"

I had let out that tiny word close to him – his words hit me as so truthful, I never ever had confided in anyone about my family's madness. Those who knew had witnessed it and acted consequently, but we had never discussed it. The only one who had been brave enough to allude to it was Dís – and it had not made me open up, it had just made me act.

And I knew why I had kept silent. For secrecy – and because of the terrible hurt it caused to acknowledge it aloud. But secrecy was long gone it seemed, and the only thing that remained was pain.

"Do you have to ask that, Thorin?"

Dwalin's voice was soft, there was none of his usual roughness or playfulness in it.

"Some will say it's because of the oaths... The King is the King and has to remain such, come what may, for the people's own survival. Then others will say it's because to speak of it would be showing weakness, and could allow bad-intentioned Dwarves to take advantage of it... But I think – I think it's mostly for fear of being judged, is it not? Madness – this must be such a nightmare, such a terrible thing to witness, the pain and sadness that goes with it, and also the look of society upon it... It's such a taboo. I hate taboos. That's always Balin's strongest argument when he wants to close a discussion..."

His voice had warmed up, but I was still hearing his words – how did he manage to read my Soul so easily, to say aloud thoughts I had not even begun to acknowledge? And there was not the faintest trace of judgement in what he had said...

I pulled away from him so as to face him. I left my hands on his shoulders because I needed to be steadied – I had never done anything so difficult in my whole life, and my face was pale as I spoke.

"My grandfather turned mad, in Erebor. He is not the Dwarf and King he used to be. And my father – he saved him from the Dragon's breath, but ever since he is not himself. They have both lost their mind in a different way... but it is not their fault. They cannot help it, especially ' _adad_. And I do not want anyone to look down on them. I wish no one could ever know. Please promise me you will not speak of it..."

There was compassion in Dwalin's eyes – no pity, he knew it would only have been misplaced. But compassion, and sadness, and also worry, for my face drained of every colour as I went on:

"I told you because I trust you, because I don't want you to think I feel above you and because I know what I owe you. I know you will never lie to me either. So please, Dwalin, if ever once in my life I should... If ever you see me become a different person, if you see my mind become twisted... Please, promise me you will try to bring me back. Promise you will try to tell me before it is too late..."

I was shaking, really shaking, and I could not go on for the life of me – but I had said everything I had to say, and these were indeed the most important words of my life.

I did not know, back then, what a last safety lock I was fastening around my being... But I did, that day.

Because Dwalin kept his promise.

He spoke, when he saw what the Gold did to me and how it made my mind crumble as efficiently as if the Dragon himself had trodden upon it. He stepped up and did talk – did try to bring me back. And his words – combined with those of my other dear, lively yet so sweet little friend, and with Balin's sad look – his words brought me back indeed.

Dwalin – my cousin, my friend, my ever-lasting light in the many shades of my darkness.

That day he locked forearms with me. He did not speak at once, he just held me and looked at me and could not speak either for a while. But eventually he broke the silence.

"Hey..."

That little word of his – I have heard him voice it endless times, and it never had exactly the same meaning. There was a ' _hey_ ' to say ' _hello_ ', another meaning ' _stop it right away_ ', one to say ' _come on_ ', ' _I'm so relieved_ ', ' _watch out_ '... But that day it meant something like: ' _Rest assured. I know. And I'm with you just the same_.'

"I promise, Thorin."

My body sagged against him then, I had no strength left at all, and he caught me, steady as ever, brushing my back again.

"It's alright. It's alright, Thorin. You are not your father, or your grandfather – their memories and lives are not yours... Don't be afraid, you'll be alright. I promise you'll be alright, I'll see to it, I promise..."

I wrapped my arms around his chest and held him. I had done this before, endless times in my illness, but I was only half-conscious back then and had acted out of instinct and of terrible, desperate need. That day it was different, because for the first time since I came, I was alone with him and had enough strength to find my way back to him. To say the words I had wanted so much to speak out loud, during all these weeks on the road, and even the years before, in Erebor that now lay broken.

"I have missed you so much...

\- And I you."

Simple words, and no needless emotion in them, just a calm acknowledgement once more. I pulled away from him and somehow managed to smile at him. And Dwalin smiled back – and it reached his whole being, lightening it and making his face shine. It always did. It always did when he meant it.

We gathered our things and left, then – he was adamant, our goal lay close, but it still took us one more hour to get there.

I was looking again at the landscape, walking next to him, and I kept thinking it was good that Dwalin held me, because despite my heavy iron-clad boots and my thick clothes and fur-coat I felt so light, so light inside that the wind howling through the rocks might as well have carried me away, taking me with him in his broken run...

"There..."

Dwalin had stopped, and turned towards me, showing me a narrow entrance, barely visible among the rocks. His eyes sparkled, and his fingers on my arms tightened their grip.

I stepped forward, my hand resting on the edge of the stone entrance – everything was dark inside, dark, cool and silent.

"How did you find it?", I asked, and Dwalin smiled.

"Luck, I guess... Come."

He ducked and stepped inside – bending his tall frame with a supple move, brushing the stone with his fingertips as he did so. And I followed him, I followed him without a second thought, and I did not have to bend or shift, I was small and tiny still, and the stone entrance seemed to have been carved for me...

It was very dark inside, and my eyes had to get used to the shadow again before I could indeed see anything. It seemed to be a stone gallery, quite huge once the entrance was passed, but the broad walls inside were unadorned, there was no Dwarven mark upon them...

"I think it used to be a riverbed once... The waters have probably found another way out centuries ago, but the caves remain..."

Dwalin's voice was not above a whisper, and it added to the feeling of being in a special place, almost sacred... It was biting cold inside, there was frost on the ground, but it was so silent, so peaceful, only rock, stone and cold...

I shifted a little, searching for Dwalin's warmth again – my left side met his fur coat and I nestled against him when he put his arm around my waist, just as I would have done for Frerin.

"Are you scared? Cold?"

His voice was gentle – we could not see each other's face, there was no need to tease each other now...

"No... It's beautiful..."

I felt him breathe, I could see his words swirl in front of us in fleeting curves as he spoke, revealed by the cold.

"Wait until you see the rest..."

He took my hand, and led me on, through that stone gallery that Nature had carved herself, and deeper into the Hill... The cold grew even mightier as the stone around us thickened, and suddenly I felt like in Erebor again, sheltered between everlasting walls, reaching for the depths of my dear, beloved Mountain...

No flames, no torches here, no gold either, but stone – hard stone against which I could rest my hand, my cheek, my brow, searching for its shelter once more...

And Dwalin let me, not urging me on, only waiting... I had taken off my gloves, I wanted nothing between my skin and stone – I had closed my eyes, I did not need them, my body recognized stone's touch without them. Stone's scent, too, so alive despite its seemingly inert mass – speaking of granite, of running waters, of earth too, earth that had been there, long ago, and had helped to shape it...

I was breathing slowly, it felt as if my lungs were discovering again what it was to have enough air, to feel like my Soul itself was expanding in my chest, so as to fill it properly...

The stone, the rock – my Mountain, my dear, beloved Mountain...

It was not mine, of course. Mine was lost, had been taken and it would be years until I would finally be able to touch her again, Erebor and her smooth, cool walls... But that Hill in which water had carved its own halls, that Hill still felt like home that day...

My fingers were cold when I searched for Dwalin's once more – yet I felt warmer inside than I had been for days. And he led me on, gently, not speaking, knowing exactly what I thought and felt...

"Wait for me. Don't move."

The cave we had entered was even darker than the others, and he left me against the stone wall, trying to find out what was glimmering in front of me, at my feet and before my eyes...

When Dwalin lit the small lantern he had carried with him, resting it on the ground, letting its flame expand so as to light the cave, it took my breath away.

A frozen lake lay stretched at my feet, its waters as smooth and sparkling as the finest of gems. And around it, I could see pillars, carved pillars stretching themselves high above the ground, transforming the dark cave into a hall where Durin himself would have been honoured to walk...

It was ice – it was nothing more or less than ice, ice that had shaped itself into stalactites and stalagmites – bright and pure as crystal, their frames achieving a harmony that we would barely have been able to reach had we tried to copy it.

"When I first came here, I thought of Erebor right away..."

Dwalin had walked back to me and was watching the ice where the light of his flame was sparkling, making unseen gems appear...

I let out my breath, and it was somehow ragged – it hurt to see so much beauty, I had never thought to be able to witness it again, and so soon, it felt as if ice was trying to atone for Fire's deeds...

"I could not wait to show you, see if you agreed with me..."

My back was leaning against the stone once more, the view was leaving me powerless, almost unable to stand, and yet I could not get enough, the pillars and halls, the shining floor – it just felt like coming home again...

"I do..."

My voice was ragged too, and I could not say more than that – I was just standing there, next to Dwalin, looking at that reflection of home, feeling rooted and crowned again, just like Durin when he had looked into the depths of Mirrormere, and found the gems of his kingship again through water and starlight...

He did not touch me, he did not speak until the first emotion had abided – and I was glad his light did not reach us, or our faces, for mine was wet again. But would he have seen it, I would not have been ashamed – it felt right to mourn for what I had lost, for it had been so much more than just halls and walls. It had been home, it had been shelter, it had protected all the treasures of our race and most of all, it had harboured so many lives, so many hopes...

We sat down together, after that, sitting close to each other, our backs leaning on the stone. And I was the one to come back to him, once more – I was the one wrapping my arm around his and resting my cheek on his shoulder.

" _Maikhmin_..."

He brushed my arm with one of his rough moves.

"A thousand times welcome, you hothead..."

I laughed, softly, and this was a sound I had not uttered for such a long time that it felt almost wrong – I stopped, quickly, but we had both heard it.

"What was he like...?", Dwalin finally uttered, almost shyly, and I turned towards him, wondering what he meant.

"The Dragon..."

He had put his fingers on my left forearm, where the silver mark of the Dragon's breath had left its trace – he had seen it during my illness, he had helped Óin, Balin and his mother to undress me, had tried to cool down my skin during endless hours of watch...

I shuddered, slightly, leaning my cheek again against his shoulder.

"Huge...", I said, finally, and my voice was shaky. "He was so huge, so strong... He crashed down the pillars as if they were made of parchment..."

I had to pause, and Dwalin entwined his fingers with mine and dragged my arm against his chest.

"He was so big... I did not even see him in his full size, I just heard him and – saw what he did... I saw what he was able to do – one of his breath crushing down years and years of work and care... A single move of him, and dozens of lives just... taken..."

I was looking at the ice, at the wonderful pillars and the shiny floor, but I was seeing other floors, other staircases, other halls, covered in dust and smoke. Not silent, but full of ashes and screams.

"When I faced him I was carrying... carrying Dís. And he spoke to me. He said we would burn – we would both burn, unless I used her as a shield for me. He said I had thought of doing it, deep inside...

\- He said _what_?", Dwalin growled, and I used his rage to wipe my face once more.

"He knew my name, and he said I had thought of using Dís to run away. But I didn't. I grabbed a silver plate that was lying on the floor, and when he spat out his filthy breath of flames, it was there to shield us. It burnt my arm-guard, but we escaped – the Dragon did not get us. Neither of us...

\- He did not only burn your arm-guard...", Dwalin said softly. "I am sorry, Thorin. I wish I could have been there with you.

\- Don't."

I had spoken softly, still nestled close to him.

"Don't wish for that. No one should have been there, no one. I don't want you to experience that, I don't want you to ever witness any harm – I don't want your life to be changed like that.

\- But it has already..."

Dwalin had resumed brushing my back with his other hand – he ever was caring, but that winter he was so soft, so tender to me because I needed it so badly and would not have let any other touch me like that, except my siblings, Balin and my father...

"I would have to be blind, deaf and ungrateful to think my life had not already changed... My brother faced the Dragon too – Erebor was also my kingdom... Of course my life is changed now that it fell. Of course it has to change now that we need to think how we can rebuild what we have lost...

\- We can't. We can't. What is lost is lost."

My voice was calm – betraying the despair I felt. Dwalin shook his head, and held me tighter.

"Don't say that. Don't say that, Thorin. The Mountain may be lost, but those who made it as it was are still there... It is our turn to help now, our turn to help our people, but you must not give up hope... There is always hope, as long as there is a Dwarf breathing under the depths."

His voice seemed so sure, there was so much resolution in his words... I could not share his hopes, not yet, what I had been through was still too close, to terrible. But I was glad he was there to hope for me.

"I have tried to reach you... I have tried to meet you on the road."

Dwalin's voice was earnest and I recovered, trying to gaze at him despite the darkness, but his face remained in the shadow.

"You did _what_?

\- I tried to find you. I packed my bag, gathered my weapons and left the morning after we heard what happened. I could not bear to think you and Balin were out there.

\- But..."

My voice trailed off. I could not believe what he was saying, that he had actually cared so much that he set off, not afraid to be all alone in the wild...

"I was so stupid – I did not think like you, I did not think about the water, I just set out like a fool through the same path we had taken... So of course my father had no trouble finding me..."

He huffed.

"The lecture I got that day – Mahal... You should have heard him, and my mother... They actually forbade me to get out for a whole week, and they were checking all the time that I was still there, I could barely breathe! They were almost beside themselves with worry for Balin, obviously, it took weeks to have some news..."

I leant back against the stone, shuddering at my remembrances. We had no means to reach them. The Ravens had all left the Mountain, and there was no one travelling to the Iron Hills in the beginning of winter – no one save desperate people...

They had probably heard from us through merchants' reports, and even then – they had probably known who was alive and who had died only when we had all arrived.

"I am so sorry..."

I had uttered those words almost inaudibly and Dwalin turned towards me.

"What for? Why should you be sorry – Thorin, dear me, do you realize what you have been through? I would have – I would never have been able to achieve what you did.

\- Of course you would."

I had spoken firmly, but Dwalin shook his head.

"I would not have known what to do... I would not have known how to lead them, how to handle the fact that they were all looking up to me... I would have gone..."

He checked his words in time but I had got his meaning, and had a sad, silent smile.

"You would not have gone mad. Not you. You are like Frerin, you are far too steady. That's why people like me cling to you.

\- Thorin, stop it. You are steady too. You are the bravest person I know."

It was my turn to shake my head.

"I'm only steady and brave when I have no choice, when everything crumbles – and even then, it's just a mess. It's just a terrible, freaking, accursed mess.

\- Hey, life's a mess..."

Dwalin's answer was dealt out promptly, and somehow it made me smile. It sounded so practical, so truthful – life was a mess, and we both could not help it.

"You know what?", Dwalin resumed, bending his head towards mine. "That Dragon, you said he knew your name...

\- Yes..."

My smile had ebbed, and Dwalin pushed a pebble towards the shining lake, watching it spin on the cool, smooth surface, turning, slowing down and lying still.

"Well that's not fair. We have to find out his, so as to curse him until he dies a well-earned death...

\- You think he has one?"

I had raised my eyebrows – so strange that I should never have thought about the Dragon as a being. For me he was like a hurricane, a tempest, Desolation itself, I had never thought he could have something as common as a name...

"Oh I bet he has one – just imagine, something like Lousy-Fume... His mother must have called him just like that when he tried to spit out his first breath..."

I smiled, barely suppressing a laugh – Dwalin was crazy, he was just crazy...

"Or even better, imagine Balin coming out of the library: ' _lads, I have found out the name of the Calamity – the supreme worm answers by_ 'Ushar _, which in common tongue would of course mean Smaug..._ '

\- Smoke?"

I was shaking my head, still smiling.

"What kind of a name is that?

\- Not Smoke, Smaaaaaaaaaug!"

Dwalin had grabbed my shoulders in a sudden gesture, leaping at me, and I gave a start, barely suppressing a scream that somehow changed in laughter, laughter that was echoing against the stones because Dwalin would not stop repeating that ridiculous name, twisting the vocals in terrifying roars.

"Careful now, I am going to burn you alive, Thorin son of Thráin, because I am Smaug, son of Prissy-Fume, and you will die..."

I jumped to my feet, still laughing, because he was determined to get me, despite his own laughter – he was struggling to keep his voice even, but still kept roaring and huffing like an old kettle, running after me in that cave, around the lake that was shining and on whose smooth, thick surface we finally let ourselves fall.

We were both breathless and laughing, and every now and then Dwalin would let out a soft "Smaug" that just kindled our laughter again.

But in the end we just laid still, our hair wet on the ice and our shadows stretched wide on the cave's roof, not facing each other, only touching with the back of our heads.

"You are crazy, Dwalin...", I whispered, and he huffed.

"Good. It makes two, then."

And I laughed. He was calling me crazy – but I knew he did not mean it, he did not think me mad at all, not in the way I had feared so much and was still dreading, deep inside.

I was feeling light, and strangely happy, despite the Dragon, despite everything, and I knew it was because I was not alone anymore. Dwalin knew, he knew everything and he still had hope, he still found a way to laugh...

I looked at our shadows, so huge and tall – and I smiled, still stretched on the ice.

For that small kingdom was ours, and could not been taken – a kingdom of light and ice, of laughter... and of everlasting friendship.

 

* * *

 **Notes and Neo-Khuzdul translations** :

\- the _crucible technique_ really exists as written here, and was used in Southern India as early as 200 BC – incredible, no?

\- " _Harmonizing the hard and the soft_ " comes from a Chinese text during the era of Liu Bang, first emperor of the Han-dinasty who had, according to legend, a sword that was forged by mixing two types of iron, wrought iron and cast iron, so as to produce steel, and as such, a mighty weapon.

\- _bloomeries_ were furnaces where bellows were used to force air through a pile of iron ore and burning charcoal, so as to reduce the ore to metallic iron. It was not hot enough to melt the iron, so the metal collected at the bottom was a spongy mass called _bloom_. The bloom's pores were then filled with ash and slag, before reheating the bloom to soften the iron and melt the slag. The iron was repeatedly beat and folded to force out the molten slag, producing the so called "wrought iron", a malleable but soft alloy. Just imagine how long it must have taken to be able to use iron actually...

\- a _blast furnace_ is a much more complicated device for heating up iron, described in the next chapter :).

\- _Galtul'abad_ : boar-shaped mountain.

\- _Maikhmin_ : thank you.

\- _'Ushar_ : Greatest Smoke.


	4. Chapter 4

It is so silent here, so silent... It should not be – I should be hearing something: clanging, shouting, the crashing sounds that go with every battle... I can only feel the wind and his kind strokes upon my face...

 _I will be there soon_...

There is a noise, though, it is getting faint and fainter, but I can still hear it, it fills my ears, my chest, my head... That drumming, once so powerful, that ever-changing rhythm, I remember days where it was not playing alone, days and nights where that beat seemed to expand, to resonate with the world around me...

 _Slow down, Thorin. Breathe. Listen. Rhythm is everything – one moment too late, one heartbeat too fast, and you are doomed_...

I do remember. Dwarves are not made for silence or stillness – we can find refuge in them, just like the weary traveller enters the Mountain seeking for shelter and rest... But it is not in our blood, to stand by and watch life play its song without us – oh Kíli...

My will-o'-wisp, my quicksilver, you knew that so well, and I wish – I wish I could have told you I felt the same, deep in my heart, despite my harsh words, my grim, collected face and the ever-lasting weight that always restrained my moves lately... There would have been days, Kíli, days where you would have looked at your stern uncle in wonder, and recognized yourself in him – because those days, dearest, those days I still listened, I still believed, those days the drum in my chest was still playing, fighting fiercely to voice its song...

And it did, Kíli. It did. Vibrate, expand, and even sing.

The noise was deafening, that day – crashing, banging, roaring with a fierce regularity... There was order in that noise, it had nothing to do with chaos, and when I would remember that first impression of the Iron Hills' furnaces, that thought would always recur – that there was fire, and dust, sweat and harsh orders, and Dwarves moving, striving hard, but that it was nothing like the panicked, frantic run caused by the Dragon's wrath...

Here in the Iron Hills, Frerin and I were looking at one of the last Dwarven strongholds, a place where we were still mighty, able and strong. Where we were the ones guiding fire, where the metal bent at our own will, where we had even been able to master water – making it flood the furnaces when needed, changing iron into steel in a powerful, deafening spell...

The furnaces were not like the mines in Erebor, where the lanterns hung like a thousand stars, adorning the stone, revealing the gold and gems hidden within it... No dark and golden stone here, the rocks were red and rough, baring the iron in their flanks like old, hardened warriors would show their scars...

But just like in Erebor, the bellows never stopped. The Dwarves of the Iron Hills knew that it would have meant a precious waste of time, and ore... The metal had to be heated permanently, it was brought from the mines to the top of each furnace, and as ore was thrown inside, the bellows blew, hot blasts of air blown through pipes that would help the iron reducing, during its journey downwards...

It made each furnace look like a strange, roaring monster, swallowing iron, breathing it through, and then oozing it – rivers of molten iron that were then carried to the forges.

And the river, the Red River that owed its name to the iron ore, giving it its rusty colour, the river had been tamed, so as to nourish the waterwheels that powered the bellows like giant pistons.

Fire and water worked hand in hand here, and the noise might be deafening, the furnaces raging and fuming, the bellows roaring... it was a song still, a grim song – practical, prosaic even, but strong, reliable, promising power and steadiness...

We were both standing above the furnaces, Frerin and I, leaning against one of the thick, iron balustrades, and Frerin had had to rise on tiptoes so as to be able to rest his arms on its edge.

"Mahal, Thorin...", he voiced, and I only heard him because I was standing right behind him – I did not want him to fall, I knew it was silly, but Frerin ever was reckless when it came to satisfy his curiosity, and that day his grey eyes were wide open, shining with interest and glee.

He turned towards me and I barely had the time to let my arms fall at my side – he would have teased me the whole afternoon had he seen me ready to hold him back, and would have climbed even higher just to see my gaze grow more and more anguished, until I would give in and drag him back against me.

That little devil – worse than quicksilver, and always smiling.

He was grinning that day, and I soon found out why, because Frerin dragged me close and whispered:

"No wonder great-uncle Grór is speaking so loud... I bet he's almost stone-deaf from spending his days down here...

\- Frerin!"

I was struggling to keep back my laughter, and tried to silence him with my gaze – Grór was standing just steps ahead from us with Thrór, Nár, Náin and Thráin, and he was indeed pointing out things to them, his loud voice clearly audible despite the deafening noise...

"So what? He _is_ shouting, isn't he, Dwalin?"

Frerin was looking at my friend, his eyes bright and playful, searching for his support, and Dwalin was smiling indeed.

"Yeah. He is. But so are you – and that is not so wise, unless...

\- Unless you want your hair combed backwards straight away", Dáin said dryly. "Boy, Frerin, if you think _that's_ my grandfather shouting, then you have definitely not seen him at his best..."

Grór was still speaking, explaining how the waterwheels had been improved to my father and grandfather, and I took him in once more – a tall, stout Dwarf, with the same blue eyes as my grandfather, but who looked both stronger and older, even though he was several years younger than Thrór.

His face was tanned and wrinkled, so were his arms, and there were no shiny pearls in his beard, only stern, practical iron clasps that helped to keep his white hair from his broad chest. Grór had always been working in the forge, had always made sure the furnaces were working, had never bothered to look mighty and clean – he just did not care. One of his eyebrows was thinner than the other and Dáin pretended it was because one day embers had set fire to it, and that Grór had only noticed when it was too late, not even feeling the heat on his leather-like skin.

Frerin loved that story, he always would ask for it and laugh, heartily, his eyes shining at the thought of his great-uncle's strength and courage, but I doubted it was true – there were tiny marks around his eyes, almost invisible, and yet I recognized their silver shade. I had the same on my forearm.

"Mahal, don't tempt me...", Frerin sighed, still looking at Grór, and Dáin laughed, boxing him in the shoulder.

"Why do you always ask for trouble, eh? Do you fancy getting yelled at, or what – it's no fun, I can tell you...

\- No. I fancy getting talked to."

Frerin's face had become serious suddenly, and his smile had vanished as Thrór and Grór had turned towards us. There was no way they could have heard us, I was sure of it, and I frowned when I saw the anguish in Frerin's eyes.

"Watch this...", my brother whispered, drawing slightly back towards Dáin as if searching for his support.

"He'll come towards us. He'll look nice and caring, and he'll ask Thorin to come. Thorin. Not me. He doesn't talk to me – and I am glad for it, I really am. Just watch. He's coming. And Thorin will have to go, while I can stay with you and be happy."

His smile was almost a wince and my frown deepened, I took a step towards Frerin, opening my lips so as to tell him this was nonsense, but the sharp, clear voice cut my speech.

"Thorin."

I froze, my hand still extended towards my brother, and Frerin's eyes gave me a short, blazing look, almost defying me.

"I told Grór about your interest for the furnaces. He has been kind enough to offer to show them to you..."

Two heartbeats. That was exactly the time I stood still, facing my brother, trying to understand what he was trying to tell me, what was upsetting him, what he was expecting me to do...

And then I earned a shove in the chest. Soft and swift, so that neither my grandfather nor Grór could see it.

"Well go, you _idiot_."

Hurt rose in my eyes, making my throat tighten, and I turned away from him, barely remembering that I had to thank Grór and had better move towards him. Instead I stammered my thanks and added, in a hoarse voice:

"Can Frerin come too?"

My grandfather raised his eyebrows, his gaze cold and displeased, but Grór smiled at Frerin, not noticing how dark his brow was, how still my brother's body had turned, still clutching Dáin's arm.

"Sure, laddie. Everybody's welcome, as long as you mind where you put your hands and feet.

\- I thank you, uncle."

Frerin's voice was collected and composed, he did not stutter, he did not blunder, he was ever a word-smith and the weapons his tongue forged were as deadly as swords.

"But I fear I am of no use down there. I would not understand, I would not know where to put my hands and feet, because I'm not sure how many I have. Ask grandfather. He will tell you I have two left hands and always had, which is why you will have to excuse me, and forgive me if I leave you."

And he turned – wounded but still swift, and fast, not caring for the reactions his words caused. Grór only watched him go, his weather-beaten faced somewhat puzzled – he had not understood him, because Frerin had spoken softly and because his meaning was completely lost to him, he had none of his brother's twisted mind...

But my grandfather's eyes narrowed in anger, his face had turned pale and his fists were clenched.

"Durin's blood was weakened indeed, ever since that son of mine believed he had a will of his own..."

I looked at my father, whose tall frame I could see behind Grór's shoulder – he was still looking at the furnaces below, and he was smiling, his hand on Náin's forearm, for he was happy, and proud.

He had worked in the Hills for several years, he had been there when they had built the most recent furnaces, and he had helped designing them. He revelled in their success, recalling the part he had played in it, and it was a considerable part. Thráin had always loved the Hills, and had been loved there – everywhere I went, they spoke of his skills, not only in the forge, but also in designing the bellows, the wheels...

My father would gladly have spent his life at Náin's side, I could see it clearly, every day. He loved his cousin, and his uncle, his face shone when he was with them, he was talking to them and it made sense – he had not forgotten a single plan or figure, he was so smart and able, even madness had not managed to erase all the ideas his brain had harboured, and to be there with them steadied him.

He never mentioned Erebor, he did not even seem to miss it – the only one he missed was my mother, as always, but with Náin he could share his grief, for Náin knew, Náin had been there when Thráin had felt his heart expand, had finally found enough courage to voice his feelings for my mother... and to face his father's displeasure at a slightly lower union.

Lower only by birth, for my mother was a noble Dwarrowdam, the only daughter of a mighty warlord that had fallen along with the other brave Dwarves who had fought the Drakes in the Grey Mountains, so many years ago...

Her blood had been just as noble as my father's, if not kingly, and what she had brought to our family was anything but weakness, it was steadiness, and love, and warmth – where there had only been hardship, cold and pride...

Even Thrór had not been able to withstand her, he had loved her as dearly as his daughter and had mourned deeply when she had died, I had witnessed it, I had not dreamt it...

What he had just said was untrue, it was so unfair, so mean, so low...

"I am sorry, uncle", I said, very distinctly, crossing Grór's kind, honest gaze – I did not want to hurt him, he did not deserve it, he was the true lord here, and what did I care if he was rough and somewhat deaf...

"I would have loved to go. I really would have, those furnaces are a marvel and it would have been an honour, but my brother is unwell..."

I extended my hand and touched his broad forearm, bowing my head as I did, and then I turned and ran, following Frerin's steps, trying to guess where he could have fled, ignoring the repeated calls of my grandfather I could hear even above the thunderous noise.

"Frerin!"

He had run along the balustrade, and then had had no choice but to enter one of the galleries, probably the first one – he would have wanted to hide, I knew his first preoccupation would have been to find a hiding place, because he was crying, I was sure he was crying, I had seen that tiny quiver of his lips, right before he turned...

"Frerin!"

I ran along the gallery, calling his name repeatedly, feeling my heartbeats drumming in my ears, almost deafening me, and when I reached the end I paused, gathering my breath and cursing myself, because I had not found him.

I clenched my fists and took a deep breath. It would not do, to be both running, both yielding to emotion and pain. One of us had to think, and right now it better had to be me – because Frerin was there somewhere, alone and crying.

"Thorin, you idiot...", I muttered, feeling the thumping in my breast slow down and my breath become even again.

He did not want me. He did not want me to find him, and the best way to fulfil that wish had been to run through that gallery like a maddened boar, warning him of my approach.

I was no word-smith, no will-o'-wisp. I was just stubborn and determined, and I was the one needing him. I would find him.

I began to walk back along the gallery, but this time my breath was cautious and slow, and every step of mine was guarded – it would not do to make the slightest noise, it was exactly the same approach we always adopted, Frerin and me, when we were outside Erebor, and wanted to have a closer look at the deer that always roamed the riverbank...

The gallery was only dimly lit – the rails on its floor were unused and I thanked Mahal for it, because it was silent. The furnaces' noise did not reach it, thanks to the iron wool that had been woven into the red walls, isolating them from sound and cold...

Step after step I walked, and it was around the middle of the gallery that I heard it, on the left – a soft, muffled noise, that took several seconds to repeat itself, barely audible.

Frerin had nestled into a hidden recess that had probably served to store iron bars while the gallery had still been in use, and I had run straight past him, not even noticing it.

But now I saw it, and for several seconds I just stood there, my arms limp at my side, not knowing what I should do, how I could reach him, how I should try to comfort him...

Frerin gave another quiet sob, and I moved. I did not care if he shouted at me or even pushed me away, I just could not bear to leave him there in the darkness.

I went down on my knees and crawled into the recess myself, letting out a curse when my head hit one of the rocks, for the stone there was not carved.

"Go away, Thorin..."

Frerin let out the words in a broken voice, and I just ignored him and settled against the rock close to him, my palm pressed against my forehead.

He gave me a shove when our shoulders touched – and it was not a gentle, playful shove that only spoke of teasing, this one was hard and full of hurt feelings.

"Get away! Go and see those damned furnaces, just be the shiny grandson and enjoy it!

\- I don't want to..."

I had spoken softly, trying to touch him once more, but Frerin pushed me away again, his small palm hard and cold against my chest.

"And I don't want you there! Can you understand that? I don't want you to extend your arms behind me and to run after me and to think you can help me! I don't want you! I don't need you!

\- But I do..."

This time I did not try to touch him. I had even moved away, because I did not want my own emotions to load that cursed alcove that was already crowded enough as it was... Frerin's hurt seemed to radiate from his small body like a deadly sun, and it felt as if the slightest move could make it burst.

"I need you.

\- Oh please... You don't need anyone. You have everything. Grandfather loves you. _'Adad_ only spoke when he saw you. Dís only sleeps when you are there. Dwalin is your new soul-mate, and Balin always doted on you. Don't you dare saying you need me..."

I swallowed hard, feeling my throat tighten – it was unfair, and it was untrue. It was almost mean, but I had enough insight in the blackest parts of my own Soul to have some hope that he just lashed out with words, as I did with my fists when I was hurt...

"Don't be jealous, Frerin. There is no reason to be.

\- I am not jealous!"

He had kicked out, this time, and he reached my shin, causing me to flinch in pain and to hold back another curse.

"Why should I be jealous of you? I don't care for the furnaces, I don't care for grandfather's attention, I don't even want to be like you! What do I care for fighting and running and endless forging? What kind of a life is that – look at you, I mean, you don't even understand how others can feel close to you!

\- Then explain – Frerin, if I did something wrong, I can try to get better, if I hurt you, I...

\- You, you, always you! It always has to be about something _you_ did! You are not the sun, Thorin, the world is wide and manages without you, as incredible as it might sound to you...

\- Oh, believe me, I would be glad for some shadow indeed..."

My voice had come spiteful and fierce, despite all my resolutions – it was too much, suddenly, he hit precisely where it hurt and I could not handle it anymore.

"I did not ask grandfather to come and call for me, in fact I would be happy if he forgot my existence, if he could just let me be! I hate his cold gaze and the way he just pretends that everything is fine, that despite what happened to _'adad_ , there is still someone he can brag about, it makes me sick! And _'adad_..."

I had to draw a deep breath, I was not even used to talking so much, but the words just left my lips unchecked:

"' _Adad_ only recognized me because you and Dís spent ages with him. If you would have left it to me, I would never have dared to come back to him. I would have let him rot in that tent, and I would have rotted with him, because yes, Frerin, he saved my life, but he only carried me because he had carried you first! And Dís..."

I did not even notice that Frerin came closer, I just went on:

"Yes, of course, Dís is always sleeping against me, but do you know why? Because she knows that without her, I would not even be able to close my eyes! Do you know what I see, every time I try to sleep, Frerin? I don't see any shiny faces, I don't see sun or light, I see Svali, and Lena, and Hergíl's face, and tell me, _kudzaduz_ , how am I supposed to sleep without holding Dís and thinking that at least, despite of everything, I managed to save her?!"

I flinched when I felt his hand on my arm, I had not finished yet, I wanted it all out, word for word, blow for blow.

"And Dwalin, and Balin... Do you know why they dote on me, as you put it? Because they are the only ones here with open eyes! They both know what a terrible lie grandfather is weaving when he speaks about me, when he presents me as the shiny grandson, the heir he is so proud of! They know that there is not a single moment where I wished I was not somebody else... anybody, not even a Dwarf if it pleases Mahal, just not the heir of Durin's line everyone is looking at, waiting for the moment where I'll stumble and ridicule myself and make all of grandfather's words appear as the lie they are!"

He was drawing me against him – Frerin was holding me against him, and I gave in to his gesture, inclining my head towards his so that our foreheads touched.

"Believe me, Frerin, I hate it too... I hate that distinction he's making between us, I don't want it, I have never wanted it and never will..."

His hands were resting on my back and I could feel him breathe against me, silently, waiting for me to finish.

"I need you at my side. When you are not there, I don't see the way, I don't see who I am anymore, and I feel cold... And I do hate the cold so much, Frerin...

\- So do I...", my brother whispered, and then he nestled against my chest, wrapping his arms around my waist and resting his face against my neck.

I just held him, feeling the racing of my heartbeats slow down as Frerin's body relaxed against mine. It was the most uncomfortable of all places, I was half-crushed against the wall, there was a rock that kept digging in my left flank, and one of my thighs was getting stiff, but I would not have moved for the world.

"Do you think they love each other...?"

Frerin's voice had come low against my chest, and I frowned, slightly.

"Who?

\- Grór, and... and grandfather. Do you think they love each other?"

I pondered his words for a while. For several days now we had been among them, getting to know this great-uncle we had never seen before, and watching his interactions with my grandfather. Collected, easy-going interactions, simple speeches, few smiles, respect but neither awe nor needless emotions...

"I suppose they do... I hope they do – I am sure they do, deep inside. They don't show it, but they are proud of each other... I mean, at least grandfather should be proud of what Grór achieved...

\- But he didn't come to visit him, even when the Arkenstone was found, do you remember? And grandfather, he barely ever went to the Hills, did he...?"

I shook my head.

"No, he didn't. They both barely left their realm, actually... But I don't think it is because they did not want to see each other – I think it's because they felt bound to the places they ruled, both of them... Grór to the furnaces, and grandfather to the golden mines...

\- Well that is stupid. I would never let any mines or any bellows prevent me from seeing my brother."

Frerin's voice was full of contempt, and I shook my head again.

"Maybe it's not as simple, Frerin... We are not growing up at the same time – they faced so many things, the Drakes, the death of their father, and their brother, the loss of their home in the Grey Mountains..."

Frerin huffed.

"And what did we go through, Thorin? Another Drake, madness instead of death, and home – well, I guess there's a dragon sneezing into grandfather's golden coins as I speak...

\- Frerin..."

His voice was so fierce – he had been hurt, really hurt by my grandfather's behaviour, and he was right. I would have not let anything or anyone stand between Frerin, Dís and me, never, neither conventions nor rock and stone...

"You were the one wishing me miles away..."

I had spoken softly, and Frerin shifted in my arms, holding me tighter.

"I did not mean it, Thorin. You know I did not mean it... do you?"

I bent my face, closing my eyes, rubbing my nose against his head.

"I did not even bother to listen, _kudz_."

He pinched the skin on my back and laughed as I gave a start, his hands brushing down my chest.

"Hey... What happened to those tiny ribs – Thorin, your chest, your arms, even your belly..."

He grasped at my stomach and I pretended to push him away, but I was smiling in the shadows, I just loved the way he voiced each and every one of his thoughts...

"What did you do?"

He was resting his palms on my chest, on the hard muscles that were shielding my abdomen again – not as hard and strong as in Erebor, not yet, but I was close, close to become again who I had been...

"Hmm... I... opened my mouth and for each word you said I just swallowed something. Some meat when it was serious, and bread for the jokes and nonsense – actually it was mostly bread when I think about it...

\- Thorin!"

Frerin's indignant tone made me laugh and he felt it, he felt my body shake against his, and my laughter turn into a moan when the cramp in my thigh finally chose to set in.

"Ah, please move... Shift a little, Frerin, it hurts...

\- Not before you tell me..."

But he shifted, of course he did, freeing me instantly from his grasp, and I extended my leg, wincing in the shadows, resting my foot against the stone wall.

"Couldn't you have picked up another spot...?", I said through my gritted teeth, and Frerin shook his head.

"It was funny to see you crawl in... Hey, don't push me, I did not ask you to follow... Besides, I hit my head too..."

He bent towards me and took my fingers, putting them against his forehead where I could indeed feel a huge bump.

"Serves you right", I muttered, but I stroked his skin nonetheless.

"So...", Frerin whispered, hitting my stomach with the back of his hand. "Tell me.

\- Alright. But you have to promise me to keep it secret. I'll only tell you if you swear not to breathe a word about it.

\- I swear."

Frerin was sitting upright and eager against the wall, facing me, his face earnest and his gaze bright.

"So...", I whispered, bending close to him. "Every morning for two weeks now, when the sun is about to rise and you just bury yourself back into your blankets, I get up...

\- To eat something before us?", Frerin asked, and I had to laugh.

"No... That's just like you! So, I get up... and then I take what I have hidden under our bed – and it is nothing to eat, I swear.

\- What is it, then? Come on, Thorin, you are the worst story-teller _ever_ , I'll scream aloud if you don't spit it out immediately!

\- Alright. It's just my old tunic and my trousers. From Erebor – I kept them and hid them under the bed. So I pull them on and while I do, I check if you are still asleep, then I grab my boots and I just steal out of our room, and what a dark world it is outside..."

My voice had turned into a whisper and Frerin nestled against me once more – I smiled again when I sensed his interest awake, perhaps I was not such a terrible story-teller after all...

"The embers in the chimney are still glowing and a good thing it is, because without them I would not see the way to the door... I pull on my boots, but only when I reach the carpet so that no one hears me... I am walking very slowly, I don't want anyone to hear and what's more, it's a funny game, the goal is not to make _any_ sound at all and I'm good at it, I really am...

\- And when you reach the door?", Frerin asked softly.

"Then I close my fingers upon the handle, and I turn it, very very slowly, I don't want the door to creak, just to open up a tiny bit so that I can slip out... After that it's easier, and I move faster, I cross the corridor and I sneak past the guards, it's just the time when they change shift, you see...

\- Thorin!"

Frerin gazed at me, his eyes wide open, he could feel my voice warm up as I showed him that secret, playful side of mine he had never really witnessed before...

"And then I run, Frerin... After that I run, straight to the western corridor, but silently... At the beginning I could not run, I had to walk, very slowly, and I was breathless when I reached it, but not anymore, now I run and I'm almost as fast as before, the sun is still rising when I reach the door...

\- What door?"

Dearest Frerin, he never disappointed me – always so truthful, so spontaneous, putting so much of his feelings into what he heard...

"The door to the training room, of course. I don't want to go there with the other Dwarflings, not yet, I want to be as strong as before when I face them, I want to show them what it means, to shift and spin, and for now I'm still slow...

\- I'm sure you are not...", Frerin said, but I shook my head.

"I am. I am so, so slow, _kudz_ , I should be ashamed. The first week, when I tried the obstacle course, I got hit _every single time_. I could not even finish it the first days. The iron bars kicked me off my feet and in the end I was just lying there... I still have bruises and bumps everywhere, Frerin..."

I laughed, silently, it felt so good to share it with him, I loved that secret and guarded it jealously, but it was safe with him, I knew he would understand.

"And I thought your chest was still paining you!", Frerin whispered. "I saw you wince, sometimes, I was worried... But you, you were just...

\- Training."

I had said the word softly, with care, as I would have voiced an oath.

"I am training. And soon, very soon... I will be dancing, Frerin. I will get back my sword in Dwalin's house, and my axe, and my chainmail, I will run through that obstacle course once more, and I will be dancing.

\- Alone?", Frerin asked, brushing my chest with his fingertips.

And it was as if he brought me back to the world, because for some seconds my heart had just expanded in my chest, quickening its beat at the delightful thought that I would run again in a few hours – run, spin and shift, not thinking, only moving, in that faded blue tunic that just looked like a royal garment in the rising sun...

Those hours where I could dream to be in Erebor once more, and that I did not want to share, not even with Dwalin, it was too private, too intense... Not lamenting, not mourning, only remembering what I had, and what I still possessed...

That feeling, when the door of the training room closed behind me, when I approached the metallic gears that I would pull down, so as to set the obstacle course moving... It was a complex mechanism that took months to be designed – and the final result was a unique training path, where iron bars roused unexpectedly, where the ground shifted under your feet, where every move had to be precise and deft...

_Not a moment too soon, not a heartbeat too late, or you are doomed..._

And my heart beat along with the clanging, with the dull thump of the iron bars that were clashing against the walls and that I was avoiding – avoiding successfully, arching my back, shifting my weight, sometimes jumping above them, sometimes cowering on the ground, but always aware of my own breathing, of the drumming in my chest that just sang that I was alive, still able, still fighting, still there and deserving to be…

"Alone...", I whispered, and Frerin nodded.

He stayed silent for a while, silent and still in my arms, and then he did something strange. He bent towards me and kissed my cheekbone, pressing his lips against my skin, and I do remember precisely how long his touch lasted.

Enough for me to feel surprised, yet not enough to react. Just enough to feel warmth invade my chest – warmth, love, and also pride.

Two heartbeats.


	5. Chapter 5

' _Afiglêb._

Speaking-Moon, second month of the Dwarven year.

So strange that during that year, every month should have fitted the terrible events that followed the Dragon's Fire – he had come in the middle of _'Afdehar_ , Anvil-Moon, right after Durin's Day that had been exceptionally late that year.

For our calendar is following the moons cycle, and every three years or so – seven times each nineteen years, as Balin would point out with his usual sharp knowledge, we add a month to our regular year, so that our time remains adjusted with the earthly seasons.

It would not do, to ignore Nature's time, every Dwarf knows this. That is why the year the Dragon came was actually _fantêrâs_ – a thirteen-moon year, where the last one was ' _Aftharn_.

Moon-of-Dare.

The moon that had witnessed my first breath and who shared its name with me – for I had been born late in the autumn, on the twelfth day of ' _Aftharn_ , and until the Dragon came it had only seemed a very annoying thing to me.

It meant no real birthday, at least not on regular years – and while I was small I would be terribly jealous of Frerin, born in the middle of ' _Afgargablâg_ , Food-and-Ale-Moon, full of sun, glee and celebrations... He had a real, tangible birthday, he was not doomed to wait for it every three years or so, his age was established and not depending upon astronomical calculations – and it was absolutely unfair and unjust.

How naive and spoiled I was, no wonder my mother laughed at me, brushing back my braids so as to kiss my hot cheeks, vowing she did not need to look at the sky to know how old I was, since I had been the thunder of her heavens ever since I had drawn my first breath...

I was thinking of her every day.

Every day I spent here, in the Iron Hills, after the Dark-Moon of ' _Afdush_ had witnessed our struggles on the road and my own illness – after so many deaths, by a strange blessing I could not really fathom, I was at last brought back to my mother.

She had died, and she was lying among tombs the Dragon had probably destroyed. She had died too young, but now that I was sheltered in the place where she had come from, in the place my father had met her, I also was reminded that she had lived.

I had never really spoken of her, after her death – and I had been too young when it happened to wonder about the Dwarrowdam she had been. My mother had simply been my mother to me – the earth where my father was a rock, the sun where Thráin had been the moon... and who ever muses about these orbs looking at the sky...?

And so it came that during this one, particular, so well-named _'Afiglêb_ , I was indeed awakening. Awakening from cold, numbness, grief and despair – finding my way back to my body, but also finding the strength to be told and to listen, for the very first time in my life.

Listen to those that had known her, to find out who she had been.

I did not expect to talk about her, I was not even consciously thinking of her the day I entered Dwalin's house again – my thoughts dwelt upon my weapons, actually, for it was time to claim them back.

For three days now, I had crossed the obstacle course ten times in a row, and the sun had always been low still when I had finally stopped at the other end of the room, wiping the sweat from my brow, my heart racing and my tunic plastered against my back.

My hair was wet and the fabric of my tunic was damp and smelled of sweat – I would have hated it, to have anyone near me in that state, but when alone, I secretly acknowledged that it held comfort. To breathe in that scent that proved I had strived, that I was alive and able – so I did not wash it. Besides, I did not want anyone to know, it was my secret, and Frerin was its keeper.

I would walk back silently to Dáin's house, nod to the guards that somehow never seemed to wonder how I had got out, and headed straight for the washing room. There I took off my Erebor clothes, and let water calm down my heartbeats, wash the sweat off my skin and the flush from my face, and dressed, ready for the new day.

"No bruises?"

Frerin's voice startled me that morning – he had come behind me noiselessly, before I had pulled on my shirt and my tunic, and he was smiling at me.

I shook my head wordlessly, keeping my face composed, but my eyes were bright and shining, and Frerin knew.

"Then you should get them back...", he said softly, sitting himself on the edge on the bathtub, watching me getting dressed.

I brushed my tunic with the back of my hand, adjusted my belt and then bent to fold my old clothes, ready to hide them once more under the bed.

"You don't want to...", Frerin stated, calmly, and I turned to face him, the faded tunic pressed against my chest.

"It's not that..."

He waited – he ever was patient with me, despite his liveliness. He knew I had none of his quickness of speech, none of his courage when it came to acknowledge fears aloud.

"What if – what if I cannot wield them anymore? What if... what if I realize once there that... that I cannot move as before, that they have become too heavy, or that I have forgotten everything...?"

Frerin looked at me for a while and I do remember that bright, grey gaze he had inherited from my father, just as soulful but clearer, and steadier.

"What if, Thorin...", he said softly, and there was kindness in his voice. "Why do you always have to burden yourself with what could happen, and yet may never come?"

He unbuttoned his shirt – he still wore his nightclothes and for the first time I noticed that, though he was indeed tiny and small, he was no true Dwarfling anymore. The roundness of his cheeks and on the back of his hands had gone, almost unnoticed, and it had nothing to do with past starvation that had left its mark upon us all. Though there was still no stubble on his cheeks, only soft, light whiskers, his gaze was steady and strong – my little brother was leaving childhood behind him, and there was nothing I could do about it...

He let his shirt fall, pushing it aside with his foot – now _that_ was childish indeed – and then he stepped up to me, so as to get some water to begin washing himself.

"You won't fail, Thorin. You will see – it will be as if they had never left your hands. And should you find them too heavy, should you feel too slow... I know you well enough to know that you will only see it as another challenge to overcome."

He removed his hair clasps, putting them next to the basin, and began undoing his braids. He ran his fingers through his hair and yawned, and had already plunged his hand into the water when he realized I was still standing there, gazing at him.

"Well...?"

He smiled, and splashed some of the water towards me.

"Get lost, Thorin. Give me some privacy – and get Dís out of the bed, she has slept enough and taken all of the blankets, serves her just right!"

He was laughing now, and he pushed me out of the room. I soon heard him sing – that was something he always did, he claimed the acoustic was wonderful in washing rooms and definitely made the most of it, in his own way...

"Ge-e-e-e-e-e-et… Dí-í-í-í-í-í-í-í-ís… o-u-u-u-u-u-t… o-o-o-o-o-o-o-f… the be-e-e-e-e-e-ed…"

And Frerin's vocalizations certainly did not fail to raise my sister. As I turned towards the bed I saw her sit up, her eyes still sleepy, her hair tousled and her cheeks still bearing the mark of the blankets.

She looked at the bathroom door with an unmistakable expression of annoyance, despite her drowsiness, and then turned her face towards me, rubbing her eyes.

"Thorin, make him stop...", she mumbled, and I smiled, sitting myself on the bed and taking her in my arms.

"Light upon your day...", I whispered – I loved that moment when she nestled in my arms, still warm from sleep, only half awake.

"Sle-e-e-e-e-e-epy… dro-o-o-o-o-o-o-wsy… Dí-í-í-í-í-í-í-ís…

\- _Mahimdin gal'mezû,_ Frerin!", she shot back, and I pulled back to gaze at her, horrified.

"Dís! You can't just say such things aloud – it's not proper, it's not even polite... Who taught you those words?"

She had blushed slightly, but her blue eyes held my gaze.

"You did. I heard you – that's exactly what you say when Frerin calls you things you don't like."

I shook my head – I would have to watch my tongue when Dís was around, I would make sure of that. It was not a good thing for her to spend so much time with us, probably – she had indeed turned into a kind of tomboy, refusing to wear dresses, pulling on trousers like a little Dwarfling... It pleased Náin, and made his wife sigh – so a compromise had been found: Dís could dress like a boy whenever she felt like, except among women, and except in my grandfather's presence.

"Alright. I did. But it was not right. It is not because I do things that they are always right, Dís, remember?"

She smiled at me, handing me her brush – she enjoyed to have me untangle her hair in the morning, running the brush through her silken locks. Then she would put her tiara upon her head and sit still, while I braided her locks around it, fastening it into her raven mane just like stars.

Itô had done it, every day on the road, and I remembered the Dwarflings looking at them, silent, full of awe – little gestures full of meaning, and grace...

I had not been taught to braid women's hair and the patterns I was weaving into my sister's locks were somewhat rough, less feminine, but Dís flatly refused to let any Dwarrowdam in the Iron Hills touch her hair.

"Thorin does it, or Frerin, and nobody else.", she said to Dáin's mother, fiercely.

"But dearest, it is not proper...", Dáin's mother sighed, and Dís' eyes flashed, bright and ablaze.

"If it's not proper, I cut it!", she threatened, and Dáin's mother gave up, sighing again, while I felt my heart warm up with unexpected pride for my little sister's temper, and fierce and jealous love.

Yet, as I was running my fingers through Dís' hair, I wondered, suddenly – was I not acting against her, in letting her have her way? Was it not my duty, as her elder brother, to try to make her act as she should, despite my own – and _her_ own inclinations?

She had ever been motherless, and with Erebor's loss and Itô dead, she had no real feminine figure to look upon, to guide her steps, to show her how to deal with society's conventions...

I sighed, and Dís turned towards me. I had finished combing and braiding her hair, and the sight she offered was both lovely and heartbreaking – her hair and face so serious and regal, looking so much older with the tiara, and her tiny body still wrapped in her nightclothes, like a child just roused from sleep...

"I won't say it again, I promise, Thorin...", she said, and I pulled her against me, wrapping my arms around her and rubbing my palms against her back.

"Good. Neither will I."

 _When you are around, mamarlûna_ , I added silently, and then we both ran back to the bathroom, to chase Frerin out of there and get Dís dressed at last.

She would dress as a boy that day – she did not care for the fact that her tunic was adorned with patterns no Dwarfling would have worn, she simply pulled on her trousers and her leather boots, and then she adjusted the belt around her slender waist, just as I would have done.

"Other way round, Dís...", Frerin teased her. "The buckle closes on the other side for girls..."

He had dressed in warm clothes – Dáin had promised to take him out, they both enjoyed training with bows and Frerin was doing really well, he ever had sharp eyes and his aims were sure. Dáin and him had ever been close, they both shared jokes and laughter, and my cousin had always missed having a little brother, so Frerin was often spending the day with him and his friends.

I was more savage – I did not really care for their looks and admiration anymore. I had Dwalin, I had Dáin, I had Frerin and I had Dís – and it was enough. I would make sure to spend some time with my father every day, usually when he was with Náin – I enjoyed seeing him so full of quiet joy, so much like his former self... He never talked much, but he would touch my arm or my hair, pull me softly against him while listening to Náin – just like when I was smaller, just like years before.

And I could not help thinking that there was some sweetness in the damage his mind had undergone: Thráin had simply erased several years of striving in Erebor, and the Dragon's coming – he just remembered he had three children and had lost his wife, the rest seemed to have vanished to him. Or so it would seem.

I would let him touch me, I even yearned for it. I had loved him so much, and I still did – it just made me sad to witness every day that we were close again, and yet did not manage to meet.

And I was also hurt by the depreciating looks my grandfather cast upon him. For Thrór's madness was different – treacherous and inconstant. He had been beside himself on the road, but now, now that he was among his people again, put into the King's position again despite his lost riches – he had pulled himself together once more. Or so it would seem.

And Thrór barely hid how ashamed he was of his son – and it was unfair, and terrible... but I could understand him in a way. To look down at Thráin, to purse his lip when he was unwilling to answer him, his eyes getting anguished again and his hand searching for support – _any_ support, Náin who was always close thank Mahal, but often me, and sometimes Frerin, even Dís – this was just my grandfather's way to face his own sadness, and failure.

Because he had failed. There was no way around it – he had failed. His harsh temper and the damage caused by Dragon-sickness and greed, but above all by all the losses he had already faced had estranged him from his son. And my father had strived so hard, all his life, to try to earn his love, not knowing that he already had it, and that Thrór probably yearned for him despite his harsh words... but it was too late.

The Dragon's coming, and Thrór's last outburst when he had saved his life, combined with the terrible injuries Thráin had suffered, it had just been too much. I have often wondered how and when my father's mind broke, one loss among many that day, yet so full of consequences...

I have never really found the answer – but now I know. I know, and it makes my heart ache and my breath come out painfully...

It broke in a few seconds, after years and years of struggling. That last ache – and it was huge and terrible – that last ache broke him, the pain both of body and Soul just made his mind burst. And at the beginning Thráin had raged, like a wounded animal, but now he slowly recovered, acknowledging only the elements that felt safe to him, like a child hiding itself behind its hands, looking at the world through its fingers...

Three children. An uncle he respected. A cousin he loved. A friend he trusted. A healer when needed.

Thráin did not need more, did not want for more – and his father unsettled him and set off waves of fear and anguish that were painful to witness. For us, of course. But probably most for my grandfather, who hid behind spiteful words and cold looks, as often.

So I tried to be there, and give them both what they needed.

Thrór yearned for keeping up the appearances of strength and ability – I was there to answer his requests, to be at his side when he wanted to take a walk through the Hills, not noticing that most of Erebor's Dwarves actually only bowed because I was there.

Their eyes were cold when they looked at Thrór, but they would bow, and as I passed I would feel a palm upon my forearm, witness a smile, and sometimes even hear a soft whispered ' _ubnadê_ '. And it was both hurting and warming my heart – I did not know how to react, usually I just gazed back, unsure and wary, but the other Dwarves understood and their attentions soon dropped to a soft, silent touch.

And my father needed me to anchor him when facing Thrór. I would move towards him as soon as I heard my grandfather addressing him, and take his hand between mine, stroking it gently. It irritated my grandfather, but it soothed my father who was facing him, his grey eye wide with fear and pain as he poured out his anger at him.

"Just pull yourself together! Can you not even manage to do that? What kind of a Dwarf just clings to people like you do, can you not take care of yourself? Can you not even walk alone and tend to whatever it is you have to do here?"

Thráin would be shaking by then, his strong, able fingers closing upon mine, almost paining me – he was afraid, and hurt, and losing his ground, and I could not bear it.

"Give him a break, Thrór. Just let him be."

Grór's loud, calm voice usually helped to soften my grandfather. As much as it irritated him to have to be the guest of his brother, and depending upon his hospitality, I think he really enjoyed being with him again after all of these decades. They were brothers, after all, and they had both raised a son – Grór had the right to speak up to him, and Thrór obeyed, thank Mahal.

He would leave my father then – he had only been with him some minutes, but it took so much more to calm him down again. My hand would be numb and sore when he would finally let go of my fingers, and his shaking did not ebb in minutes.

Once I even saw him cry – silent, desperate tears running down his cheek. I had looked away – I could not bear to witness him in such a state, but I had not freed my hand. I had just waited for his tears to stop, it was Náin who had held him against his chest, silently, his own face full of sorrow, and his gaze had crossed mine for a second, sharing my pain.

Usually it was Frerin who would drag him back from those depths. He would enter his room, well-knowing what had happened, only needing a quick look at my father and my own drawn face.

"' _Adad_ , guess what...", he would say, coming close to Thráin and putting his arms around his neck, pressing his body against his back. "Your favourite scarf is back!"

And he would bend and press and endless number of kisses into his neck, tickling him and making noises, and after seconds my father was smiling again, laughing even, turning towards Frerin, trying to shake himself free.

" _Dashtith_...", he would voice, grabbing my little brother around the waist and dragging him against him.

And Frerin would smile, and laugh, but his eyes were still aware of everything, watching my father with gentle concern, and searching for my gaze once he had assured himself Thráin was better.

He knew what I had witnessed, and how it pained me, emptying me of all strength and joy.

' _Go. I will take over_ ', he signed in Iglishmêk, his small fingers moving silently against my father's back.

' _Thank you._ '

My own fingers felt numb and icy, but Frerin smiled at me, and I would leave the room then – it happened every second day, and it should have been routine, but I still had to get back to our room and close the door, because after that I could not go on for a while.

I would slide along the door, pressing my palms against the ground and my face against my knees, and just like my father, I needed more than minutes to be able to get up again.

And when I did, usually, the only thing that really helped, that really made me feel warm and alive again was finding Dwalin. I knew the way to his door by heart, but sometimes he even found me before – I do not know how he managed, but somehow he ever seemed to be close when I needed him.

And Dwalin did not need more than a quick glance to know what was going on, and how I felt.

"Society be damned", he would grin. "I'm off – are you?"

And of course I was. Sometimes we took long walks, exploring the rest of the rocks yet always careful not to leave the Hills, and sometimes we just climbed, searching for a place to rest and be together – not even talking, just sitting...

We also smoked, sometimes, small amounts of tobacco Dwalin would have got from his father's reserve, and it was funny. I was good at making smoke-rings, they would leave my lips and get big and bigger, but Dwalin's were even better, because they spun softly on themselves – he claimed he had no idea himself how he managed to achieve that, but I never really believed him. I think he pretty much knew, and wanted to keep that skill secret. The rascal.

We blew out smoke-rings, but what truly left my body was that sense of loss, and pain, and terrible sadness. With Dwalin I felt free and light again, I saw a life that also held joy – a deep joy, aware of the fact that it was a blessing in a hard world.

He kept me whole, preventing me to break down, just as my siblings did. And I was so grateful, so grateful to have them.

"I don't care for buckles, and what girls do! I want to be a boy!"

Dís fierce voice only made Frerin's smile widen. He bent down, crouching in front of her, feigning to take a hard look upon her body, huffing and hemming in a perfect imitation of Óin.

"Well laddie, you still have a long way to go...", he grumbled, his voice gruff – you could almost think he was in the room, and it made us all laugh.

Yet, as I was walking along the corridors to reach Dwalin's house, holding Dís' tiny hand in mine because she had insisted upon coming too, she resumed the subject that seemed to occupy her mind.

"Boys can do whatever they want, and no one says anything to them...", she said, her silvery voice ringing clear in the corridor despite her soft tone.

"Girls are always told what to do. And when we want to do something that pleases us, it is never proper. That's why I want to be a boy. I want to be like you."

I paused then, looking down at her, taking in her decided face and the way she was chewing her lower lip to look firmer.

"Why would you want to be like me, _mamarlûna_?", I asked softly, crouching in front of her to face her better. "It is not as wonderful as it seems... You don't really want to be like me...

\- Yes I do!"

Dís looked up at me and there were tears in her eyes.

"You are strong. You don't wait for people to save you, you just act and fight and win. I want to be just as strong as you, and Itô. I don't want to depend upon anyone – next time I don't want you to carry me and get ill because of me. Next time I will carry you."

It was not really making sense, and yet... I dragged her against me, pulling her face close to my chest, and suddenly she was crying, silently but so hard that her small body was shaking.

There was no one around us, and had there been anyone I would not have cared – I only thought about Dís and the terrible fear and guilt that must have weighed her down for weeks.

"Oh dearest... It is not your fault... It never was your fault...

\- Yes it is..."

She was still crying, and I could only brush her back and hold her tighter, leaning my face against her hair.

"I heard Dáin's mother speaking. She said _'amad_ died because she had bled too much – because I had made her bleed too much... It's all because of me – and she said it was a sad story because _'adad_ had done just the same...

\- How can she say such things to you?!"

My voice was fierce and loud, anger had just risen in a tidal wave and Dís lifted her face from my chest, her cheeks still wet.

"She did not... I heard her speak to a friend of her, she did not see me... She would not have told me... Nobody ever told me...

\- Because it is _not true_."

I had voiced the words loud and clear, looking earnestly at my little sister.

"If you begin to think like that, it just never ends. It's _'adad_ 's and _'amad'_ s fault because without them you would never have been born, and it is Óin's fault because he could not save her, and maybe it's Frerin's fault, and my fault too, because our births might have weakened her... You cannot begin to think like that, Dís. It doesn't lead to anything good."

She was looking at me, and tears were still streaming down her cheeks.

"But with you it was my fault. If you had not been forced to carry me... if I had not weighed you down as I did, you would never have been ill. You almost died because of me.

\- I survived because of you", I said earnestly. "I was lost... lost in that white desert, I could not..."

The memories that arose were still so painful, I shuddered and felt my voice getting brittle, but still... I managed to get on.

"I thought I was alone out there, but I was not. You were there, and Itô, and _'adad_ , and Frerin also... I would not have survived without you. Without any of you. And it has nothing to do with being a boy, or a girl, _mamarlûna_."

Her face fell then, and I brushed her cheeks with my thumbs, repeating that word softly. _Mamarlûna_. You who are loved, you who are blameless and should not have known guilt.

"Come, let's see what Dwalin's up to...", I whispered, and Dís nodded.

She wiped her eyes with her sleeve, her little face crumpled and still wet, and I pulled her up and hoisted her on my hip.

"I told you I don't want you to carry me...", she mumbled, but she still rested her face on my shoulder and I smiled at her.

"But it doesn't mean I don't want to carry you..."

She wrapped her fingers around one of my braids, relaxing against me, and I rested my palm against her back, brushing it every now and then as I walked, hoping I had eased her pain.

Dwalin's mother was the one opening the door, and I smiled at her, while Dís shyly buried her face in my neck – she knew Dwalin's mother, but they had never talked much and moreover Dís had just cried and was always shrinking from people after that.

"Come in, sweetheart...", she said, smiling at us, but avoiding the mistake to try to touch Dís.

"You are just on time, because I am making butter cakes – but if you want to see Dwalin, you will have to wait a bit. I sent him off with Fundin to get more firewood..."

She had already closed the door behind us, and we both followed her into the kitchen, sitting down on the bench, Dís staying on my lap.

"We are sorry to disturb you...", I began, but Dwalin's mother cut my speech at once.

"You are never disturbing. I told you, you are always welcome. You and your family.

\- Frerin as well?", Dís asked, and she smiled.

"Of course. Frerin as well."

She went on with her dough, kneading it into a round, soft and flexible ball between her fingers, and Dís stirred on my lap, before getting down to join her.

"If you want to roll it out, you have to pour some flour on the table", she told Dwalin's mother earnestly. "Or the butter will stick. That's what we always did in Erebor.

\- Really? Would you mind pouring it, then?"

Of course Dwalin's mother knew how to roll out dough – I did not, back then, because I never had meddled with fine cooking before, I just knew how to prepare the basic rough meals that went with a camp-fire. I watched my sister pour the floor and stretch the dough with some help – Dwalin's mother putting her hands upon her tiny fingers as she moved the rolling pin.

"I liked to watch it done in Erebor", Dís said once the dough was rolled out, looking up to her to see if she was pleased.

"It is not so easy...

\- No it is not, sweetheart. A lot of little things that look easy are actually quite difficult to achieve and require practice..."

Dís pondered her words for a while, putting one finger upon the dough so as to feel its thickness.

"But it is not useful...", she said softly, and again my heart tightened.

Dwalin's mother looked at me, then at Dís, and then she gently huffed.

"Not useful, dearest? Wait until Fundin and my boy are back... Then you will see if it is indeed useless – you will hear them beg for a tiny little cake, sitting there in those big armchairs claiming they are weary, and unable even to wait patiently for the cakes to be cooked...

\- Frerin was just the same in Erebor!", Dís said with a smile. "He said he would give his kingdom for one of those cakes... Now he has nothing to give anyway, because Erebor is lost."

She was laughing – my little sister was actually laughing, voicing those words with childish innocence, and Dwalin's mother looked at me again.

"Oh I bet he's sorry for that", she simply said in a good-humoured voice, and Dís nodded.

"Oh yes. I know he misses it, actually. I am sure he misses the kitchen most...

\- And you, what do you miss most?", Dwalin's mother asked gently, beginning to cut the dough into shapes of tiny cakes with little cutters made of iron.

Dís stayed silent for a while, helping her and concentrating on her task, but she had heard her and her answer astonished me.

"I miss the music...", she said softly, putting one cake upon the baking tray.

"There used to be music, and Frerin, Thorin and me we used to sing. I used to dance, too... _'Adad_ said I was dancing beautifully, and I loved it, but actually what I loved most was listening to music..."

She did not look up at me but I knew what she was hinting. I had not said a word ever since their conversation started, I had been content to watch and listen, and Dís had gained enough confidence to almost forget I was still there...

My chest tightened painfully and my body tensed, as I waited for Dís' next words, that soon came.

"Thorin plays the harp beautifully."

She was still putting cakes on the tray, and her face was bent upon her work.

"I wish he would play again."

She was biting her lower lip again, and her eyelashes were glistering, her unshed tears looking like pearls – but Dís worked on, her voice staying even, and Dwalin's mother pretended not to notice.

"The harp – that's a lovely instrument indeed, I had a friend who loved it dearly. She said the name in itself was so telling – the _long-line instrument_ , isn't that a fitting one for Durin himself? She played beautifully too... she was so gifted, she managed to make us hear the rain when she played, and the wind upon the Mountain, and the soft voice of the wanderer singing about home...

\- Where is she now?", Dís asked, and for a while Dwalin's mother stayed silent, probably waiting for a sign that she could go on.

But I was unable to move, unable to speak, and thank Mahal she went on, taking it as a yes.

"She has gone to the Halls of Waiting", she answered softly. "And there I am sure she plays. I am sure she is the one sending those soft rays of sunshine you see sometimes, when the sky is full of clouds, do you know what I mean? Those clear, broad rays that look just like a road heading to the sky...

\- I have not really seen it...", Dís said haltingly. "I have not been outside the Mountain so much... Did she – did she see them?"

She had stopped working for a while, gazing up at Dwalin's mother, and I was waiting for her answer as well, my whole body yearning for her next words.

"She did, sweetheart. She loved to look at the sky and to feel the wind upon her face. She never liked being in a cage... just like you. So she found the key out. First through music, and then..."

She smiled, helping Dís to rearrange the cakes on the baking tray.

"And then?", Dís asked softly.

"And then through love. She found someone who hated being caged just like her, someone who was struggling to get rid of heavy chains himself, and who saw through her instantly. He looked at her and asked her if she would dare to come out with him, and do you know what she answered?"

My sister shook her head, and Dwalin's mother bent towards her.

"She said he had better run fast and catch her..."

And Dís smiled, then, slowly, her blue gaze clearing up at last. She leaned against Fundin's wife, beginning to cut the next cakes, and it took her three cakes to ask the next question.

"And where is her harp now?"

Stubborn, steady little Dís. Of course she had understood – had she? Or maybe it was just a way to reassure herself she had, and could begin to picture that mother she had never known...

"Oh, that harp has been through many journeys... It has crossed this world many times, and been through many seasons... It has seen sun, and riverbanks, and flowers – fields of wild flowers smelling of spring... And harvest feasts, with bonfires and happy songs... But it has also seen greater fires, and cold, and snow. And now it rests. Until someone calls for its song again.

\- And where does it rest?", Dís asked. "Who saved it from the snow?"

This time Dwalin's mother wavered. She was not sure of my reaction, not sure of the proper words to say.

"Balin did", I said softly. "Balin saved it. ' _Adad_ brought it back, and Balin laid it to sleep in his room. I have seen it."

Dís looked up at me, and there was a silent pleading in her eyes.

"And can you...?", she whispered, and my own voice was hoarse when I replied:

"Can I what?

\- Make it sing. Awaken it – can you?

\- I don't know... I don't know, Dís."

My eyes were burning and I struggled to keep my voice even.

"But I'll see what I can do."

I got up, then, and Dwalin's mother dried her hands to open Balin's room for me. Dís followed her, but once the harp was brought out, still covered in faded velvet, and was resting upon the floor in Fundin's sitting room, I gently said:

"It will take some time. You should finish those cakes – you really should, Dís, they smell wonderfully."

And she understood. Of course she did. She knew what it meant to me, to unveil it again, to hold it against my shoulder again – that harp that was a symbol not only of my parents' love, but also of my father's madness... Or perhaps not his madness – the visible strings of his heart, probably, that had tied him back to this world somehow, even on that desolate day upon those forlorn hills...

And she knew I could bear no witness, that this taming had to take place unwatched – yet not unheard.

And a taming it was indeed.

As I unlaced the strings of the velvet tissue, my heart was racing – and it was not the joyful anticipation of movement and quickness I felt in the training room, it was a much greater challenge.

I was afraid to touch it again. I was afraid to hear the sound I was going to create – it reminded me too much of my father and that frightening sight he had displayed, on the hills next to Hergíl's tomb, where he had seen me as my mother...

But I was also afraid to discover the harp had broken – that the damage the snow must have inflicted upon it was too serious.

And I was afraid to have forgotten. I was afraid to be paralysed and frozen, to be unable to remember how my fingers were supposed to move – I was afraid to have lost this other key of freedom I had shared with my mother.

And so I just held it, my heart beating fast in my chest, once the velvet tissue had fallen on the ground. I just held it, against my shoulder, my fingers tight around the polished wood, and for a while I froze indeed, only aware of my hurried breathing, not even daring to really look at it.

I could hear Dís and Dwalin's mother in the kitchen, they were just a few steps ahead from me – I could still go back there, say it was damaged, tell them it was hopeless.

But I did not want to. Not really. And so in the end I turned, and forced myself to look at it. My fingers felt for the wood, searching for cracks and other damages the snow could have caused, but there was none.

My father had carried it on his back every day, taking care of it just as if it was his axe or sword, and it had not even touched the snow.

The only impact that terrible journey had had upon it lay in the tuning of the strings. They were loosened, and had suffered indeed – the sound itself spoke of that injury, for it was like a moan, hurting the ears, terribly out of tune.

I looked at it for a while, unsure of what to do next. Give up, and ask for a new set of strings – surely it could be found here, all Dwarves liked songs and even Grór was found of music, I had heard him sing old Northern song down in the furnaces...?

Or try – try to fix it on my own...?

And in the end I took the harp back on my shoulder. My fingers brushed the polished wood, the old silver runes, the symbol of the Seven Stars that indeed had always reminded me of Durin, and rested upon the metallic tuning pegs.

"Do not worry. You will be fine."

I whispered those words, and then I began to tune it – and it was hard work indeed, requiring as much skill as forging, perhaps even more, because iron once bent stays so, whereas strings ever had a will of their own...

Every once in a while I would have to go down the tone ladder once more, because a string had chosen to get deeper again, unable to bear the strain I had imposed upon its peg.

And I was not even aware of the fact that I was not simply pulling at the strings, but that I gradually began playing fragments of melodies so as to get assured they stayed tuned.

I was frowning, bent upon my work, and my hands had warmed up when I reached the last, highest string – back then I had already played several of the songs I knew, but I had not noticed. My fingers ran down the strings, making them sound one after the other in a swift, sonorous cascade... and I smiled, eventually, when the sound ebbed.

"Good.", I whispered, and then I began.

My left hand struck a chord, and another – the same chords, a two sounded, repeated melody, regular as raindrops. For raindrops they were supposed to be, falling softly upon our walls, failing to reach our Halls but nourishing the earth...

And my right hand began to play then – the song's true melody, that spoke of stone, enduring that steady fall, welcoming it after so many dry days.

Awakening.

Shivering maybe, if stone could be said to shiver, and then revelling in the rain that intensified – I could hear it as my fingers moved, they had to be fast and strike the same chord again and again so as to show the drumming of those drops...

Drops falling on the ramparts, I was standing there with Balin, gazing up at the sky, wondering... Wondering...

Softer now, brighter – the rain slackened, the melody was changing, sounding more cheerful, this was Dale, golden roofs the rain had polished, making them shine, making the people down there step out of those porches again – had it stopped? Was it safe outside...?

It was not – the rain poured even more, my fingers were getting faster, the melody got deeper and my hands were flying. Behold, everyone, this is thunder, this is lightening, this is storm...

And this is rain. Falling gently once more – falling softly. Upon stones and leaves, almost caressing them to apologize for its previous harshness – falling softly. Falling gently.

And stopping.

When the last note ebbed, I took me a while to remember where I was. I had closed my eyes while I had played, and as my gaze fell upon that cheerful fire, those broad armchairs and the low table where cakes had been disposed, I frowned, puzzled – where was I...?

But then my eyes met others, and they were all there. Dís of course, seated at my feet, her small fists pressed against her cheeks. Fundin and his wife, leaning against the table, holding each other close. Balin standing next to the door, silently.

And Dwalin. Looking at me as if he did not really know me – he was not supposed to be there, I had never thought of playing in front of him, that side of me... it did not fit, it did not fit with what he thought of me, I was brave, a fighter, and nothing else – I could not be anything else...

And yet...

As I was ready to put down the harp again, to grasp Dís' hand and tell her it was time to go, that we had already been there far too long... it was Dwalin who held me back.

"Please, Thorin..."

I did barely recognize his voice – it was so soft, so full of wonder.

"Go on. Please..."

There was no mockery in his brown eyes, nothing but genuine pleasure, and wonder.

He sat himself close to Dís, and then he simply listened. I forgot what I played afterwards, probably dances, and other songs – I just know I played long enough to see Dís nestle in my friend's broad arms, leaning her back against his chest just as I had done.

Long enough to forget why I had come here in the first place, for when we finally left to get back to our rooms, Dwalin accompanying me and carrying Dís who had fallen asleep, I realized only when he had gone that I still had not fetched my weapons.

It did not matter. They could stay there some hours longer. I was not afraid to be unable to wield them anymore. I already had back what I needed.

I had not forgotten.


	6. Chapter 6

Seven stars, above the crown, the hammer and the anvil – the crest of the House of Durin.

Seven Houses of Dwarves, dwelling in different Mountains, pursuing their own aims, seldom mingling with each other – delving, forging, mining for their own kin.

But aware that we were still One – seven children of the same Father, like rivers springing from the same source – and would unite, if circumstances called for it.

A rare occasion it is, a meeting of the Seven Houses, and I have only witnessed three. The last one right before this journey – and there I was King in Exile, asking for help that never came. The second one before war – and Mahal must have been looking away that day. And the first one here, in the Iron Hills, where I was still a boy, a lad of twenty-four, not even bearded – the youngest among the lords seated there, for I had come in my father's place.

I was seated at my grandfather's right and had Balin next to me – he was my father's _mamarrakhûn_ , and I needed him. I was feeling so small, so out of place, despite the chainmail I was wearing above my tunic, despite the heavy leather jerkin that was covering my breast, and the reassuring weight of my axe behind my back, of my sword against my thigh...

I had braided my hair with care – yet as I had fastened my hair clasps, I had wished I could actually go there my locks untamed, forming a tangled curtain behind which I could hide...

"You are so handsome...", Dís had whispered as I was waiting for Balin to come and fetch me – but I had not been able to smile at her, I was too nervous.

My grandfather had asked me to come, and it was an honour – even if it meant acknowledging my father was still unable to tend to his duties. I could not appear as an anxious little Dwarfling – it was just out of the question, and so I kept silent, my fists clenched.

"You look queasy...", Frerin said, his grey eyes playful. "Pick up carefully, before you threw up your dinner – aim for the Stiffbeard fellow, their hair is said to be sticky anyway, he won't mind..."

I groaned, and must have looked white indeed, for my brother stepped up to me, hugging me from behind so as to rub my shoulders without facing me, avoiding the blade of my axe with a swift move.

"Don't worry, Thorin... You won't be sick, you haven't eaten anything since yesterday..."

I could feel the concern in his voice, and leaned slightly into his embrace, trying to gather some courage from his warmth.

"I wish you could go in my place, _kudz_...", I mumbled. "If I have to say something – what if they ask me to talk? Just imagine what they will think if I stutter and get all red and...

\- I told you already", Frerin gently chided me. "Just leave _'what if'_ out, it is only unsettling you. Don't hide – you have every right in the world to speak."

He brushed my hand and I could feel Itô's ring circling my finger. I drew a deep breath and braced myself. I had faced the Dragon, fought against Orcs and crossed a white desert of ice and cold. I would manage. I had to manage.

"Here, Thorin..."

Dís' gentle voice made me look down at her, she had taken my other hand and was tying something around my wrist. One of her ribbons, its silvery pattern faded by dust and snow.

"This way you'll know we are with you, and you won't be afraid."

She tied it carefully, entwining the knot with the ribbon – and it did not look like a garment, it was barely visible, almost hidden under my sleeve.

"Thank you...", I whispered.

"Remember you promised to tell us everything about them", Frerin said, his gaze earnest. "Stonefeet, Ironfists, Blacklocks, Stiffbeards, Firebeards and Broadbeams. Don't forget to take them all in...

\- I won't...", I said dryly, fighting back my anguish. "They will probably be busy taking _me_ in...

\- Imagine them naked", Frerin replied, unmoved, and I had to smile at last, wishing I could take him with me.

Balin had come shortly afterwards, putting a warm hand on my forearm.

"Ready, lad?", he had asked, his smile showing as always in the wrinkles around his eyes.

I had nodded, and he led me to the vast Hall where the council was going to be held, giving me his last advices.

"Now, laddie, remember – don't get unsettled by the rough ways of Ironfists and Stiffbeards. They come from the far North – they are mostly dealing with wind and snow-storms in the Orocarni, don't expect too much concern from them. With Blacklocks and Stonefeet, it's different – they might challenge us actually, they are strong and independent, always have and always will. Stay calm, let them position themselves, once they are done there will be room left for speaking..."

We were almost there and my stomach tightened painfully – I was trying to make a note of every word, it was so important to gather some support, we had come here numbering almost two thousands, and the Iron Hills could not harbour us all...

"Firebeards and Broadbeams are kinder. They remember brighter days... they never challenged Erebor's power, were always glad to leave the ruling to Thrór. They are not rich, but as such they understand what it is to endure – I would count upon them, definitely, and avoid the mistake to look down on them..."

I nodded and Balin brushed my arm, gently.

"Let them speak first, anyway. Listening is the best way to keep the upper hand – but that advice is not new to you, Thorin..."

He winked at me and I smiled, or rather tried. I only wished that meeting to be already over. And I wished I had enough courage or craziness to shake myself free from Balin's arm and just run away.

But of course, I followed him inside – I had to handle this, and I would. I was representing my father – and Thráin could be called many things, but he had never run away from duty while his mind was sane. Neither would I.

Náin and Grór were already there, as was my grandfather. Grór was seated at my grandfather's left – he was Lord of the Iron Hills, but he was not King, and as such he did not occupy the main place. The Hall was set deep into the Hills, and was dark and mostly unadorned, only harbouring several huge stone tables that were disposed so as to form a square. Torches were lit though, set in heavy iron rings on the walls around us, throwing light upon the tables, drawing our shadows on the ground.

At the top were the Longbeards, our tribe, and I could see Fundin at the left end of the table, close to Náin and Grór. My grandfather was in the middle, then I came, and Balin and then Nár – faithful Nár who would not leave Thrór.

Facing us six Dwarves were seated, doubtlessly the envoys of the Firebeard and Broadbeam clans, because three of them had indeed beards and hair so luxurious and red that it made Náin's look almost brown – they had woven their beards and hair like huge collars around their necks, a wonderful protection against the draughts that kept gushing through the seldom used Hall.

The Broadbeam Dwarves had nothing truly special – they looked like us actually, or so I thought as I saw them seated. I have long lived among them – have ruled among them and felt honoured to do so, for despite their few riches and their humble abodes, they are straight, honest and warm-hearted fellows, once past the initial distrust, once overcome their anger of being treated as lower Dwarves.

Broadbeam Dwarves had none of the tallness that was the mark of Durin's line – we were all tall, and Frerin and I were often actually called slender, simply because we were not bulky and never would be. Erebor Dwarves were swift and lighter than others – lightweights, as Dwalin would tease me, and yet... weight can be both a blessing and a curse, as many attributes indeed.

Broadbeams were shorter, and made up for it with an unusual breath of arms and thighs – they were also strong, and definitely able, their hands as mighty weapons as mattocks.

They looked at us with interest as we sat down, and one of them actually smiled at me – he had brown, curly hair that he kept unbraided, not caring to let it flow freely upon his shoulders. His name was Jónar – and I would forget him, after this meeting, forget his face but not his kindness... before recognizing it decades later, and wondering at Mahal's strange designs.

On the left side, close to Fundin, I could see the envoys of the Stiffbeards – well-named indeed, their beards similar to pine leaves, bushy and thick yet straight, as if their hair had been coated in ice once, never forgetting the frost afterwards. Their eyes were light and small, as if they were perpetually blended by a blazing light or facing a strong northern wind. I thought about their lives, up in the cold North, where they faced white deserts I still dreaded – and I shuddered, or perhaps I was just feeling that nasty draught again.

Close to them were two Dwarves belonging to the Ironfists – I could not discern if that attribute was indeed suiting, for their hands were gloved and their arms crossed. They looked quite bored, actually, their faces expressionless yet weather-beaten – masses and strengths that were not to be moved easily...

My gaze shifted to the right, to the envoys that were seated closest to me, and I was almost startled by the scowl I witnessed in three tall, grim Dwarves, who had the most impressive beards I had ever seen. Not because of their length, or the refinement of their braids and adornments – but because they seemed to mock ours. For their beard was unkempt, black as coal, thick and tangled as brute wire, and it made them look savage and ruthless, those Blacklocks looking down at me.

"They pick them out of the cradle, lately...", one of them growled, his voice just audible enough for me, and I did my best to pretend I had not heard, and was not in the least unsettled.

The Stonefeet Dwarves smirked – they had heard, and looked almost as rough and hard-nosed as their kinsfolk. I don't remember any of their attributes – I think I did not really dare to take a closer look at them, I was desperately trying to fill my chair and to assure myself I had the right to be there.

It was my duty, I owed it to my people – I would not let any Blacklock or Stonefoot draw me out of that Hall.

"Right, everyone, let's get it done...", Grór began in his loud, sonorous voice, and I could see my grandfather wince at this unceremonious introduction.

"Welcome again to each and every one of you – it can't have been easy to cross those lands in the late winter, and we want you to know that we greatly appreciate your coming. My halls and fires are yours."

I could see that his simple speech had pleased both Firebeards and Broadbeams – again I witnessed the smile on Jónar's lips, a warm smile that reached his eyes. The Stiffbeards nodded, while the Ironfists never stirred, but both Stonefeet and Blacklocks looked unmoved – at least they were not smirking anymore.

Grór had made sure to offer them food and rest before beginning the meeting, and drinks were being handed out – ale, of course, but also a strong, sharp-smelling drink whose scent was indeed reminding me of fire. My glass got filled as well, but I never tasted it – I only raised my glass with the others and pretended to drink, I did not want my thoughts to get clouded.

Grór and my grandfather did not shrink from the fiery drink, though, both of them had been born in the Grey Mountains, and I have no doubt that they recalled those years – Grór with a soft clicking of the tongue and my grandfather with a satisfied sigh.

"This, Thorin...", he said softly to me, bending down and putting his cold, broad fingers upon mine. "This is what we call a prelude indeed..."

He smiled – Grór was still adding a few words of well-wishes and welcome, but I was looking at my grandfather, trying to sort out his mood. Was he simply enjoying a reminder of rougher, yet not unhappy days – or had he forgotten why we were all seated here, lost in his memories and dreams of grandeur once more?

"You should try it...", he added, but then his gaze fell upon me – and I was a lad still, try as I might, his hand completely covering mine.

"Or perhaps not...", he said softly, and there was a half-smile on his lips, almost gentle, so unusual for him. "We don't want you rolling under the table, do we?

\- No, grandfather...", I whispered, not daring to smile back but revelling in the touch of his palm against mine – please Mahal, just leave it like that, don't make him move, let him stay like this...

But Thrór moved, of course, focusing again on the meeting that had begun, ready to speak again, and plead for his people, as he had done so often. His hand left mine, and he turned from me once more, forgetting about me as soon as he did so.

" _Oddur Oddvaldurul_...", my grandfather began, his Khuzdûl ringing clear and loud in the cold, silent Hall, as he greeted the envoy of the Blacklocks, who had a slight bow of the head.

" _Vinar Vindarful_..."

The Stonefoot bowed, his gaze unfathomable.

" _Nyr Nyrathul…_ _Stígur Steinurul_..."

He was greeting the other envoys, turning towards the Ironfists and Stiffbeards, and I wondered how he was able to remember all their names, that sounded like incantations to me...

But I should not have marvelled too quickly, for when he came to the Firebeards and Broadbeams, Thrór wavered, his gaze narrowing, suppressing a smile that had none of its former gentleness.

"And..."

They were facing him, their faces calm, seemingly unmoved despite the insult – the King had not seen fit to remember their names, they were the less important clans, what did they expect...?

"Balin...", I whispered, and my friend reacted instantly, slipping me a piece of parchment where he had scribbled a few runes – and I could guess his repressed anger in the unusually sharp angles of his writing.

I stood up then – I did not really think about it, I had forgotten my anguish with the shame of my grandfather's behaviour.

" _Íthi Ímundurul... Jónar Jararul_..."

I had not stuttered, I had not even blushed, but inwardly I was feeling cold and tense, and my knees were shaking – they were all looking at me, even though I had spoken softly.

Jónar bowed, and so did Íthi – and as I sat down again I felt Jónar's gaze rest on my face. And somehow it gave me courage, and enough strength to endure the iron grip I soon felt around my left thigh.

"Indeed...", Thrór said, his voice soft, but his fingers closed upon my knee, crushing it to the bone.

It hurt – it really hurt, it spoke of terrible anger and promised punishment, for I had dared to cross him, to speak up when he had not deigned to do so, and it was unforgivable.

And I had to hold my breath and grit my teeth so as not to wince, but I did not stir. I only got paler, and when Thrór finally released me the pain was so intense I could not really focus upon the words he spoke next – he was mentioning Erebor, unlucky circumstances, the tragic loss of the King's Jewel... who cared for the Arkenstone now, it was lost, lost forever, and it would not help us here...

A soft touch on my hand – Balin was enclosing my wrist in a gesture he shared with Dwalin – and it helped to keep me grounded, just as his brother did.

He had witnessed what just happened, his jaw was clenched and his gaze was burning, but neither of us moved or spoke, it was unthinkable.

"How many dead?", Oddur asked, his black gaze sharp and almost as cold as my grandfather – and Thrór wavered.

"Two thousands...", he said, almost haltingly, and he turned towards me then – he actually dared turning towards me...

"Two thousand seven hundred and forty eight...", I said, and my voice was still faint, but it grew stronger and louder as I went on – I owed it to them, I finally had the right to acknowledge that pain.

"Two thousand six hundred and three lost in Erebor...", I added, and my gaze was bright and burning.

_Panicked feet, screams echoing on the staircases... That small Dwarfling, lying motionlessly on the ground near the riverbanks, warriors whose bones had been crushed, Dwarves whose lungs had not been able to recover from poisonous fumes... And I was leaving out Dale – Dale where Girion had fallen, where Lena had died, where my friend Cillian was perhaps going through the same struggles..._

"One hundred and thirty six on the road, eighty three from injuries caused during the sacking..."

_Their wounds festering, without any possibility to save them – and Óin had tried so hard..._

"Twenty slain by Orcs and seven dying from injuries afterwards..."

 _And one of them had braided horse-manes, had been a friend, had kept calm and smiling despite everything – Hergíl who had been shooing horses with me_...

"Twenty six dying from starvation..."

_Oh Svali... That soft, warm breath against my neck, that white tomb that still haunted my dreams..._

"And nine dead in the Iron Hills."

 _And Itô among them_ – _my_ batshûna _, my proud, unbending shielder in the snow, with the dancing axe_...

 _Itô, dead for me_.

The silence that fell after my words was deep – I think even Náin was astonished by the exactness of my answer, but I had cared, I had cared so much, I had never forgotten a single Soul trapped in Erebor and Dale, or fallen along the river, and I could voice it at least, even though I was small and young and crushed by my grandfather's cold, indifferent madness.

My grief was strong and burning, just like the drink that filled their glasses before them – and it silenced them all.

"Well, that is what I call accurate, son...", Oddur finally voiced, and I cut his speech at once – I hated his gaze, still unmoved by so many dead.

" _Thorin Thráinul_...", I replied, my voice fierce – I was no son, I would not let him shush me or reduce all those losses to mere facts.

He bowed – and when I look back at that day, I think he actually meant it, that somehow I had stopped appearing as a mere Dwarfling to him and the rest of those Dwarves. They could all sense I had been there, really been there, and that no one could take that away from me.

"And how many survived, Thorin son of Thráin?"

Jónar's voice was gentle, he was not smiling, he was looking earnestly at me and there was sadness and compassion in his gaze. Of course he would be the one calling us all back to the true issue – those who were still living, those who had been saved, those who mattered even more... And of course he would be addressing me, and not my grandfather, returning the slight to him in the sensitive way that goes with true dignity.

"One thousand nine hundred and seventy three..."

My voice was low – it had been such a burden, and it was such a burden still. It was almost as much as the whole population in the Iron Hills – we would manage for the winter, but not much longer, every single house was crowded and hosting one, if not two families... I had never voiced it, I had tried not to think about it – I had needed to rule out facts for a while so as to find my way back to myself, but I had always known it.

There was no way we all could stay there – the question was not _if_ we had to go, but when. And where.

Nyr of the Stiffbeards let out a long whistle, expressing his own awe in front of this colossal number, and his neighbour Stígur unfolded his arms, putting his palms on the stone table.

"Indeed, mates...", Grór said, and his easy-going tone did us all good. "That's why we are all here, see?"

He filled his glass again with the fiery drink and cheered towards them, his blue gaze standing out in his battered face.

"As much as it pains me to say so, there is no way we can harbour all of them... A third of them, yes – my men's kin, and the injured, and the children. Them I can keep – the rest...

\- Do you honestly expect us to take care of the rest?", Vinar of the Stonefeet voiced, eyebrows raised in disbelief. "Erebor was the main stronghold – you were the ones meddling with gold and gems, trading with Men and Elves. We have only scarce business with Men, and none with those pointy-eared creatures – we all earn our keeping, and our lives are hard. That's no place for Dwarves used to a life of food and shelter.

\- But surely you could use a few skilled craftsmen more?", Balin interjected. "There are some among them, used to handle both metal and stone – you could use them for your dams, and to fortify your places... You could even use some warriors..."

Vinar huffed, but I could see the thought taking shape in his mind. He leaned back against his chair with a frown, gazing at the floor without seeing it, but my grandfather's voice roused him.

"Just remember who these warriors have pledged their allegiance to in the first place. They are _my_ warriors – _my_ guards...

\- And you have no food to offer them", Oddur said, flatly, and there was a smirk in his eyes. "Just try it – make the experience. Ask them how many would come with you, should you leave those Hills where you enjoy shelter..."

I am not sure those words shaped my grandfather's decision – he had long been uncomfortable with using his brother's hospitality, and had probably never thought of staying long in the Hills. But we still could have – I had harboured the hope that he would think of us, at least, of my father who was still recovering and in no state to travel, and of Frerin and Dís who were still so young...

We had the right to stay – we were Grór's closest family, my father and Náin were like brothers, there was no shame in staying, we could have helped to develop the Iron Hills even more, of trying to rebuild some of our former strength here...

But that veiled insult shattered it all – or rather triggered Thrór's selfish, foolish impulse, and so I had to hear them, those words that cut through the small amount of strength and confidence I had strived so hard to get back these past few weeks.

"Oh, do not worry, we will leave those Hills indeed... Do you think I can bear to stay there where I have no use – I have earned my keeping long before you were born, and my kin and guards will follow me, even if it means to go a-begging, rest assured. They have to. They have pledged their lives to me. We will leave as soon as winter is over – and you will see, they will all follow. Mark my words, Oddur son of Oddvaldur _._ "

His voice was low, but fierce and fearsome – the Arkenstone had robbed him of his senses, but it had also bestowed power upon him, a power that did not ebb with the stone's loss, and Oddur felt it.

As for me, I sagged against my chair, my face ashen. I did not care for looks and impressions anymore – my worst nightmare was returning. I would soon be on that road again, without any assurance of food or shelter for my siblings, for my father, for those I held dear... I had done it before, but what had kept me going was the promise of reaching safety, in the end. And ignorance as well, for had I known what was expecting me when I left Erebor, I would not have dared to stir, I would rather have died right away...

And now I knew... I knew exactly what I had to expect, and it was worse, ten thousand times worse, because there was no relief to be expected, never, no home or strong place to reach...

I barely listened anymore – I cared about my people, but Balin was there also, listening closely and making suggestions, whereas I could only think about my brother and sister who were expecting me back, eager to hear about all these other Dwarven tribes that never cared for them, were unmoved by their past struggles and those to come...

My fingers closed upon Dís' ribbon and I bit my lip, so hard that it cut – but it was better than to cry, and what could I do indeed save crying, when faced with such a dreadful future...

"Laddie, don't fret...", Balin said softly, placing his hand on my forearm, aware of my distress, of the fact I was barely following, my eyes looking down at the table, at that glass still full of that strange, fiery drink I had not tasted and never would.

"Nothing is written down in stone yet..."

I almost laughed – what did he know about how I could feel? He had his family there, and Grór had been adamant, he would keep those who were kin to his men... Him and Dwalin, I would soon lose them, I would be lost to them, because I would be looking for shelter and food and try to hold the pieces of my family together – and failing, of course, failing because there was no way out of this nightmare, no way out of that never-ending curse I wished to no one...

He kept his hand on my arm, and I did not shake him off – but I was not finding any solace in his touch, I only bore it because I did not want to attract attention more than necessary...

The meeting lasted a good hour more, and I don't know how I managed to follow, to give the appearance I was fully aware of everything that was being said and discussed.

Later I would be able to try distinguishing between emotions and facts, to ignore some of the feelings raging in my heart when I had to negotiate or to plead the cause of my people... Not always – and I would be careful to let more skilled speakers second me in those journeys, speakers such as Balin whose tongue was always gilded.

Perhaps I actually never managed, to sever emotions from facts, when I think about it... I would always consider both, and often rage, inwardly and outwardly – but as the years passed, I think I can say safely that I have not always handled blinded by feelings... That though in the end I failed, just like my grandfather before me, there were times where I have been wise, and many others where I have listened, keeping the upper hand as Balin had advised me...

But that day I was so young and so distraught... I stopped considering the other Dwarves at envoys who could not sacrifice their own interests, despite the sympathy they felt for us. The world was still black and white for me, and I drew a clear barrier between them.

Blacklocks and Stonefeet I distrusted and hated – they would only take our most skilled craftsmen and warriors, they never asked for families, for those less gifted but still in need...

Ironfists I despised because of their indolence, they never voiced a single opinion, and only followed the Stiffbeards that agreed to take in several warriors as well, and some of the families that could travel.

Firebeards and Broadbeams gave me some hope, but their influence and riches were so small... Jónar spoke kindly, and asked many details about the families that were still without shelter – the Ered Luin where they came from harboured coal mines, and they were always happy to welcome new workers, but the lands were poor and their relations with Men had dropped to the strict necessity – coal against food, which was always scarce.

I was looking at him, still biting my lip – he had such an open face, such a warm heart, but he had nothing more to offer. As much as I felt drawn to him, he could not help us – he could only offer hard work, and no promise of true shelter, but he did so with all his heart.

The meeting's conclusion was predictable. The weakest among us would stay in the Iron Hills, the rest would go, either to offer their services in other Dwarven settlements, either setting off on their own, for those who felt themselves able to do so...

And those who had to follow my grandfather and be damned would form the rest – a tiny troop it would be, I could already picture it, the pitiful remaining guard of Thrór, once King under the Mountain...

I was barely able to breathe when the talks finally came to an end. As soon as the other Dwarves began pushing their chairs away, I stood up myself, freeing my arm from Balin's hand, getting away from him – away from him and my grandfather.

Náin came up to meet me with Fundin, he raised his hand to touch my shoulder and I let him – the other Dwarves were still around, I had to manage, I had to keep up that pretence of calm and strength my grandfather's words had just shattered...

"Well done, lad. Your father will be proud of you."

How could he say such words? How could he truly believe my father would be proud of me – my poor, crazed father who did not know he was doomed again to stumble along on barren lands, not understanding what was going on, why everyone kept pushing him, why we were always supposed to move...

My poor father... My poor father who still believed I could do him some good...

Náin's smile vanished when he saw my face – I must have looked so distressed, so desperate, but I did not let him talk to me, for I was afraid of my reactions should I stay a moment longer...

"Thank you, uncle...", I whispered, and then I turned.

I walked out of the Hall, trying to keep my steps slow and even, and once the door closed behind me I ran at last.

I ran, and as I did so my thoughts arose, full of self-hatred and contempt – what had I expected, how could I have been so blind, how could I have forgotten that happiness and shelter were just gone, gone forever without any hope of returning? What did I need more, to learn that there was no justice at all in life, had I not witnessed Svali's death? Had that not been enough to teach me that everything that was soft and kind would be crushed and trampled on, that the only way to survive was to brace yourself and fight?

How in Durin's name could I have thought that those precious, sheltered, happy moments could last forever? Had I not already seen that we were doomed, that there was no way out but to grab your weapons and tools, and fight, and endure?

I had reached the training room's door at last and thank Mahal it was late, thank Mahal there was no one there – I did not even stop running, I just pulled the gears down, and ran straight through the obstacle course, and what did I care if I was barely seeing anything, if it was the first time I was crossing that path in full battle gear, and with an injured knee?

The iron bars rose, and I just fought my way against them through the path – I was not avoiding them, I was thrashing down at them with my axe and sword, gritting my teeth so as to keep my breath even, so as to prevent myself from screaming... But when I reached the end of the course I still felt as shattered and desperate and brittle, and it would not do, it would not do at all...

So I started again, and again, and again.

Until my legs were shaking and my breath uneven and hurting, until I was sure I was a mess, only yearning to break down and cry...

"Just watch and learn...", I voiced, my voice hoarse, and then I pulled the last gear down.

I had never used it before – I had been through that path with my father and Dagur in Erebor, but never alone, for the obstacles that were rising in that course were no iron bars, but blades.

Sharpened blades that did not care for the opponent facing them, that had no compassion for training Dwarflings – my father had never let me cross it alone, he had always been there to be sure the blades did not reach me, parrying the blows I had not been able to foresee.

But my father was not there, and could not help me. No one could help me.

I took a deep breath and then I ran, again.

"Thorin!"

The first blade had risen and I parried it with my sword, feeling air's sharp move against my cheek. The second I hit with my axe, and I went on running, and what did I care for that voice that was calling me, the fear in it unmistakable, I had a lesson to learn, I had to pay for that shameful illusion of happiness in which I had deluded myself...

_Sssish!_

The third blade rose inches from my face and I pulled back, shifting my weight to the side, or at least trying to, because suddenly my injured knee gave way and I fell, dropping my axe so as to rest my palm on the ground.

_Sssish!_

The pain arising in my right forearm was sharp and unforeseen – the next blade had shot from a hole close to the ground, and cut right through my sleeve... Rise, I had to rise...

"Thorin!"

Blood was trickling down my arm, my fingers were getting sticky and I just abandoned the thought of picking up my axe – too heavy, it would only slide... _Rise and keep running, fight them off_...

I was staggering, and I was so slow, suddenly, so slow...

 _Sssish!_ A blade against my chest – meeting only my chainmail. _Sssish!_ Another one I parried with my sword, my left hand shaking, but my teeth gritted – _just watch and learn_...

I was stumbling on, waiting for the next blade threatening to cut my skin – _are you not even able to avoid them, are you so useless, can you not even take care of yourself_...?

But no blade came.

With a grinding sound, the obstacle's mechanism came to a halt – some blades half risen from their sheaths, but unable to harm. Someone had pulled down the gear, and brought them to a standstill.

I fell then, down on my knees, still clutching my sword, and moments after I felt hands on my shoulders, holding me upright.

Shaking me fiercely.

"Are you mad?! Have you completely lost it?!"

It was Dwalin, Dwalin who was pale with anger, who had pulled down the gear and run towards me, dragging me from the course, not caring that my blood was trickling down everywhere, staining the floor, my clothes and his own.

"Mahal, Thorin!"

This time he was shouting – fear made him lose his last reserve, and he pushed me against the wall, almost slamming me against it, making me sit, before tearing at the hem of his shirt, and pulling up my sleeve.

There was blood on Dís' ribbon.

That was the only coherent thought that entered my head – I had trouble focusing, and sitting upright, and I was shaking.

There was blood on Dís' ribbon.

"Of course there is, you idiot, you just cut yourself with those blades like... Thorin, it could have severed your bone!"

He was tying a shed of cloth around my arm, and I watched the fabric soak up the blood with strange indifference. Dwalin tied three or four shreds around my injury, and suddenly the bleeding stopped – at least, no blood could be seen anymore.

Nothing could be seen anymore, everything was getting dark, but suddenly I felt sharp slaps against my cheeks. Dwalin was hitting me, he was actually _hitting_ me and though I was determined to make him pay for it, I had trouble moving and opening my eyes.

"Come on, you stupid, crazy..."

I was lying on the floor and Dwalin was kneeling next to me, his brown eyes wide with fear and his face still ghastly pale. I heard him breathe out his relief as I looked at him, and he stopped slapping me.

"What in Mahal's name got into you?!"

I was still shaking, shaking so hard that he had to help me to sit up, and for a while he just faced me, his hands upon my shoulders, taking in my bruised face, my bloodied lip and the look of utter despair that still had not left my eyes.

"Thorin, you almost killed yourself..."

His voice was low and there was fear in his eyes – not fear of me, a deep fear of what might have been, and that I could not bring myself to share.

"Thorin, what happened?"

He was speaking gently now, his anger had ebbed as swiftly as it had risen, he was too worried to keep shouting at me, I was offering a much too alarming sight...

" _'Adad_ said you were wonderful at that meeting, that you did really well, that what you said helped them all realize how serious the issues are, but that you left before Náin could properly thank you..."

I drew a shuddering breath and my friend brushed my shoulders.

"What happened, Thorin...?"

And when he saw I still could not answer, that I could only sit and face him with mute, terrible despair, he dragged me against him and held me. He crossed his arms on my back, pulling me against his chest, forcing my face to meet his shoulder, and then he waited.

Endless minutes where the only sound that could be heard in the dark training room was my own ragged breathing.

"I... we have to leave."

I had said the words in a choked voice – I would not cry that day, my grief and anguish were too strong, they robbed me of air and made my voice sound tiny.

"My grandfather says... he wants us to leave."

Dwalin stayed silent for a while and my despair only grew – even he had nothing to reply to that, there was no answer to that terrible prospect...

"Then I leave with you."

His voice had not wavered, he was still holding me against him in that strong, steady embrace of his. I tried to pull away but I was so weak, I could not even look at him.

"No. You are not. You are staying here with Balin.

\- Balin won't stay here. Meaning I won't either. You'd better face it, Thorin, I am going with you.

\- How can you say such things?!"

The hurt in my voice was so strong that he let go of me slightly, and I could face him at last, I could look at his kind, deep brown eyes that met mine, not lowering their gaze.

"You have everything, you are safe, you are loved, you have a house, a father who's strong and able, and a mother who's loving, and kind, and smart! What do you know of the wilderness outside, of starvation, of death, of illness, of injustice?! Why would you even want to know?!

\- _Astû zamarakhmi._

\- No, you won't! You can't shield me, because it's not a game! It's nothing like that training path, there are no gears one can simply pull down to make it stop!"

I was clutching his shoulders, I was the one shaking him in anger this time, my gaze burning with unshed tears.

_"Astû zamahshumurmi._

\- You can't protect me – I have to leave you, and there is nothing you and I can do about it!

\- _Ya astû zabinganagmi..._

\- No! You won't stay with me, you won't be going with me, I forbid it, do you hear me?! I don't want you, I don't need you!

\- ... _ra astû nê zaserejmi._

\- You _will_ leave me. You _have_ to leave me. Please don't go with me, Dwalin please stay safe...

_\- ...'ashur nurtu kuylê..._

\- Dwalin, please...

 _-...la' murudmi_."

He had said it.

Every day of his life, until his dying day.

Every word of the oath that pledged him to be my _mamarrakhûn_ , my shield-brother, should I accept his vows.

His voice had been unwavering, but there were tears in his eyes also – he knew what it meant, he was aware of everything he was leaving behind him, and yet...

I could read in his eyes that his only fear lay in my refusal. It was in his blood, had always been in his blood. His father was a warrior, his brother was my father's _mamarrakhûn_ – and I was his best friend, the one that had saved his life when we had both been mere children.

As he had just saved mine.

"Thorin, please..."

He said the words softly, and I had to turn from him for a while – he really wanted it. He really meant it. He could not bear to stay at home knowing I would be alone on a road of wilderness and peril, he was so brave, so steady, so generous and kind...

I brushed my eyes with my hale arm, my face still averted.

"If you leave, I go with you... Just look at you, you would not last a day outside without me..."

He was teasing me, but the issue was crucial, and we both knew it. Our lives would never be the same after that – there was no way back, not for him who was offering everything to me, and not for me who would always be responsible of that tremendous gift.

"Of course I would...", I said, my voice hoarse. "I have done it before."

And it suddenly it did not seem an impossible thing to do it again. Not with him at my side. Not if I had him to back me up, and to tease me – his brown, mocking eyes keeping me whole, preventing me to fall apart. He knew my strength, he knew how strong-willed I could be, how pride and honour would make me reach for my last limits... But most of all he had seen me at my lowest, and knew I was my fiercest and deadliest opponent – harming myself as efficiently as scorching fire or the sharpest of blades.

Yet he still loved me, still yearned to be at my side – and I did not know why Mahal was so kind to bestow such a friend upon me. I did not know, and it made me feel weak and fragile, so undeserving – but I still yearned for that gift, for that friendship that has always been the private, guarded treasure we would both strive to protect.

My shield. My everlasting light in the darkness, always there to save me. Always there.

So I put my hands again on his shoulders, and my right arm was shaking, blood spreading slowly on the fabric again.

"You know what I am supposed to do now?", I asked, trying to sound firm and commanding, and Dwalin nodded, his gaze earnest.

"You know that it's disgusting, but that I have to do it nonetheless?

\- Just make it quick...", Dwalin replied, and it was my turn to nod.

I drew a deep breath and then I closed my eyes and bent towards him, kissing him on the mouth, as it was custom to seal an oath ever since Dwarves had roamed the world.

It only lasted a second, and we both pulled apart straight away, wiping our lips with a fierce, shy move.

"Mahal, this was _so_ revolting...", Dwalin said, but he was grinning, actually, yet his smile vanished as he looked at my arm.

The fabric was red with blood – it was close to trickling once more on the ground.

"Alright, my lord...", Dwalin sighed, tearing again at his already damaged shirt. "Let's strip me off to wrap you up... You _idiot_...

\- Just watch your tongue..."

I did not offer any resistance, though, I let him wrap my arm up again, and then drag me on my feet to lead me out of the training room, leaning me against him as I staggered.

"Hey – you won't be doing that kind of stupid stuff every day, will you...?

\- 'Course not..."

My voice was getting faint again, the corridor walls were spinning around us and the only thing I kept being aware of was Dwalin's arm around my shoulders, and the steady weight of his body against mine.

"Have to keep you entertained..."

He huffed, and after that I don't remember much. He said I managed to walk until we reached Óin, but I'm not sure, I just remember asking him not to cut the ribbon around my wrist – I had to keep it there so as not to be afraid, and strangely enough, he obeyed.

Óin bathed my wound and stitched it up – and he did not ask anything from me, or from Dwalin. His serious gaze rested upon me, every now and then, but he did not voice his thoughts, and I was glad for it, I did not want to talk, did not want to explain, I had barely realized what had just happened and did not even know how to begin to handle it...

Dwalin left me straight afterwards to clean up the mess we had left in the training room, but after that he came back.

He stayed with me until I recovered a little, and he brought me something to eat as well.

He stayed with me, that evening where he pledged his life to me – it would have been weird to leave each other after that, and in the end I just slept with him in his room.

It was late anyway – and neither of us could bear to stay alone that night. We locked forearms together, and then we closed our eyes, not talking, not even whispering, for everything that mattered had already been voiced.

_If you leave, I go with you._

And he did.

He did.

 

* * *

 **Dwalin's oath** :

" _Astû zamarakhmi. Astû zamahshumurmi. Ya astû zabinganagmi ra astû nê zaserejmi, 'ashur nurtu kuylê la' murudmi_.

I will shield you. I will protect you. I will stay with you and never leave you, every day of my life until I die."


	7. Chapter 7

The snow was melting. The Red River's waters swelled with thawed ice and were roaring fiercely among the Hills, and though the earth was still barren, without blossom or flower yet, the winter was withdrawing, defeated at last.

There would be no more shining pillars in that wonderful cave Dwalin had showed me – it was probably damp and dark again, waiting for the next winter to adorn the cool walls that had reminded me of home.

The wind was still cold, and it would be weeks before we would be able to take off fur-coats and warm tunics – but the snow had vanished, and the Iron Hills stood red and proud, victorious once more, ready to welcome spring.

How I wished to be able to rejoice in it – I should have been glad to see the sun throw its rays at the snow, reducing it to pools of water, unable to harm anymore... That winter I had hated so much, feared so much, now I was clinging to its last days, wishing it to endure forever, because its downfall also meant the end of peace and shelter for us.

The wound on my arm had healed, leaving a thin scar on my skin that was easily covered by my clothes – no one but Dís and Frerin ever noticed, and I had told them it had been a training accident, staying close to the truth but keeping my despair from them. The different Dwarven tribes I had described to them as promised, answering Frerin's many questions – but my brother was still too young to realize fully what the issues had been, and asked about appearances and characters, not about words and decisions...

So in the end I had not really managed to tell them we would have to go. I just could not – my grandfather had not alluded to it again, and neither had Náin. My uncle had not spoken to my father about Thrór's decision and had never mentioned it to me – so I chose to wait, and to let Frerin and Dís enjoy their last carefree days. There was no use in clouding their skies already: my brother was so happy with Dáin, he was always outside now that the snow had melted, roaming the woods with him, practising his new-found bow-skills – yet not hunting. There was no killer instinct in my little brother. Not then and not afterwards.

And Dís was enjoying her days here too. She would often accompany me at Dwalin's house, and sometimes I would play the harp there for her – but most of the time she was seeking out Dwalin's mother, who had indeed found the way to her heart.

There she would go, dressed as a little Dwarfling, her tiara fastened in her long raven hair with stern warrior-patterns, but she would still be content with helping Dwalin's mother in her many errands, as long as they could talk about our mother. She was happy in Fundin's house, my Dís – and she made Fundin's family happy too. Fundin would call her his little star, pulling her on his knee and letting her play with the braids of his beard – and he was listening earnestly to her when she told him she wanted to learn how to fight.

"Sounds reasonable enough...", he said, his brown eyes smiling kindly at her. "With those rascals you have as brothers...

\- Oh no!", Dís would voice earnestly. "I would never fight them – well, perhaps Frerin sometimes when he calls me things I don't like, but not Thorin. I would never fight Thorin..."

She would look at me then, her blue gaze so loving and faithful – oh _mamarlûna_... Have we ever fought each other? Was there no day those childish, loving words came untrue? I know I have made you unhappy so many times, that I have wounded you, called forth your tears and quenched your laughter... I remember that day where you hit me in the chest, the only way to make me aware of the fact that you were still there, breathing, living and loving me. And that other day where you screamed, and struck me wherever your hands could reach me – thinking I could not understand your grief, that I had not been through that ache, and yet you were wrong...

And if you could see me now, knew the terrible things I did and what became of me – and what I have done to you, taking your ultimate treasure from you and leading your sons to peril and death... No doubt you would rejoice in seeing me clawing for air, no doubt you would wish for the pain in my chest to be greater even, and for that agony to be infinite and even more painful...

Or perhaps – perhaps you would not... It would be so unlike you, to rejoice in other's pains, revenge is a feeling you never could revel in... I am not even sure you were resentful, _mamarlûna_... I am not sure anymore of what you are, and what I only believed you to be – maybe I mixed it up, maybe I never understood...

I just know that I want you at my side. I do not care if you would crush me or hold me – I would give anything, every breath, every heartbeat, every drop of blood my body still harbours, to be able to see you one last time, and ask for your forgiveness.

And to thank you, because you kept your promise and never fought me, staying at my side despite my faults, my harsh temper, my broken Soul that could harbour so little joy, despite of everything we built together.

Every ray of sunshine I got ever since my darkest days, I owe to you. Everything I achieved I did for you. And I wish... I wish I could offer you more than a desolate Mountain scattered with bodies, and tombs, and memories that will fade away with you...

I give you my last tears, Dís. That's the only thing I have left – I can feel them slide along my cheek, so warm against the cold wind... I wish I could turn them into diamonds, and make a necklace out of them, that could embrace your slender throat – do you remember the one I gave to you the day you wed him? Your One... your worthy One... You were so beautiful...

She was always so beautiful...

But the day I was recalling was long before, a day where we were both children yet, I leaving childhood, and her, my Dís, still fully living it...

She got Dwalin and me to train her in the end – actually only Dwalin, I was too scared to hurt her and did not like the thought of her fighting, I just wanted her shielded and at peace...

But Dwalin was not afraid. He was so tall, so strong and yet his moves were smooth and perfectly mastered – he never dealt a blow that could harm her. He smiled at her and found her a wooden stick that was light enough for her to wield, and then he made her move, teaching her the elemental parrying moves, and then some attacks as well, as the days would pass.

"She's gifted, Thorin...", he would smile, letting Dís touch his chest with her stick so as to encourage her, not caring for my wince.

"You are gifted, _sarnûna_..."

Dancing-lady... That's what he called her, and he was right – Dís was so gracious with that stick, and after a while she asked for another, and fought Dwalin with two sticks, one in each hand... Not fighting actually, rather dancing, wielding them like torches, and he was unused to it and revelled in that training.

"Thorin, that's the perfect way to train against ambidextrous opponents... What hand do you write with, Dís?"

She blushed then, looking at me.

"I don't write really well yet...", she whispered, and Dwalin smiled again.

"What hand do you draw with, then, sweetheart?"

She bit her lip, facing the ground, touching it softly with her sticks.

"The right hand...", she said shyly, and I cleared my throat audibly, still backed up against the wall, almost smiling – it was so sweet to see her struggle with harmless lies...

She looked at me then, and I winked at her – it was alright, it was only Dwalin and me, and we would not tell...

"Actually...", she whispered to my friend, coming close to him. "I only draw and write with my right hand when Balin is around... I can do it with both hands, and I prefer the left. But Balin says it is not proper. And ' _adad_ used to say it as well... and grandfather..."

Dwalin huffed then, shaking his head.

"Not proper indeed... I will tell you something, Dís. I write with my left hand, and there's nothing wrong with it – the only thing that ever was crooked were my runes when someone tried to make me hold the quill with the other. I write with the left hand, eat with the right... and make sure to strike down every one who's not happy about it with both.

\- Dwalin!"

He had the grace to look slightly guilty – after all Dís was still young and it would not do to have her fight like an untamed Dwarfling... But my sister was laughing, revelling in his words and in the skill they shared, and it warmed my heart to see her smile.

Yet my happiness and serenity were gone, ever since that meeting. The nightmares that used to plague me had returned, stronger than ever: an endless, barren road I was treading, every single night, carrying someone – Dís, Frerin, Svali, but often just an indistinct body I was desperately holding against me, aware of its weakness, of its hunger, listening to its moans and knowing I would not be able to save it...

But the moans were mine and they woke me up. Me, and also Frerin, who would usually shake me awake so as to make that dream end. He would look at me, trying to understand, watching me getting up, leaving the room so as to bathe my drenched face, and then come back, lying down again, my eyes wide open in the dark room.

"Sleep. It was just a nightmare. I am sorry."

He did not ask anything from me – he just held me against him, gently stroking my chest, waiting for me to fall asleep again, yet always giving in to sleep first, still so young...

Now that the snow was melting it was even worse. For a week now I had been waiting for my grandfather to react, to call us all to him, to tell us to pack our small belongings and join him on the road. Many Dwarven families had begun their packing, ready to leave for the White Mountains or other Dwarven settlements, or to seek for their own good fortune. But Thrór did not voice his own plans, and that anxious waiting was killing me.

For three nights now, the same nightmare had caused me to wake up drenched in sweat once more, barely able to reach the bathroom to throw up. I closed the door and retched, just like the day I had come here – and I was getting gifted at doing it swiftly and almost silently. Frerin always followed minutes after and only found me bathing my face, seemingly composed, yet inwardly trying to shake off the fear I fought at day and that returned in full victory at night.

"What's wrong with you?", he had asked the previous night, gently rubbing my back, watching me dry my face.

"Nothing...", I muttered, and Frerin shook his head.

But he still did not ask anything. Perhaps he guessed what the cause of my nightmares could be and did not want to face it – or rather, he was waiting for me to be brave enough to confide it him... But I ever was a coward when it came to facing my worst fears and had none of his courage – so I stayed mute.

The night that followed, however, I dreamt of the Dwarflings again. I saw Itô carrying them out of the tent, and this time I could see their faces clearly, both pale, the shiny gems of a tiara adorning the raven locks of the first, and the thin, golden braids circling the face of the second... _So small, so lifeless..._

Frerin shook me awake and this time I was not moaning – I would have screamed but no sound came out, instead I felt my stomach heave and got up once more, staggering in his arms. He helped me reaching the bathroom – I was still struggling to fight back the terrible images of that nightmare, and Frerin held me as I knelt down on the floor, throwing up once more, unable to fight the dread that had invaded me.

After that he handed me some water, and then he sat himself next to me, circling my waist again, gently brushing my back, waiting for my breath to become even again.

"Right, Thorin...", he whispered once we both were sure I would not be forced to bend upon the bathtub again.

"Either Náin's cook has sworn to poison you – and she will indeed, if she keeps serving us potatoes _every single meal_..."

He rolled his eyes, still rubbing my back – he was trying to cheer me up and managed indeed to summon the ghost of a smile on my lips.

"Or there is something else turning your stomach upside down, and you'd better tell me, because I'm fed up with shaking you awake every night and watching those rings under your eyes getting deeper and deeper..."

I leaned against him then, resting my head against his – he was right, it had lasted long enough, what was there left to hide anyway, Frerin was no idiot and would guess it soon enough...

"Those potatoes...

\- Hah!", my brother said, gently rubbing his forehead against my temple. "I knew it...

\- No, you don't... You will soon wish you would still be able to eat them, because in a few weeks... In a few weeks, Mahal only knows what we will be able to put in our plates..."

It was so strange – usually night hours hold so much more anguish than daylight... Nightmares creep in, and every fear is distorted, but not that night. That night I was glad to have it out – to have told Frerin whose kindness and sense I always treasured. He deserved to know – and I needed him to tell my father what awaited him, I could not bring it to him alone...

"So it is true, then...", Frerin said, and there was no surprise in his voice, only weariness.

I pulled away from him, gazing at him.

"What do you mean?"

Frerin shrugged his shoulders.

"Dáin told me about grandfather's projects. He does not want to stay here, does he? He never wanted to come here anyway – he does not like to be his brother's guest, it hurts his pride... There are few things that don't, when I think about it, still... That one was predictable...

\- You... you _knew_?"

I was barely able to mouth the words, I could only stare at him.

"Well, yes. I was waiting for you to tell me if his plans were confirmed – he would tell you first, would he not? You or Nár, or Balin... and they would have spoken to you...

\- He... he did not... Frerin – how can you be so calm about it? How can you bear it – how can you bear to think he is dooming us all to exile and starvation once more?"

There was so much despair in my voice and my brother resumed brushing my back, gently pulling my head against his shoulder.

"He won't..."

Frerin had answered calmly, stretching his legs so as to touch my bare feet with his. I could feel his toes against my skin and they were warm – he was always so warm, like baked bread coming out of the oven, he could walk for hours on bare stone floor and still warm me up with his feet...

"He won't be dooming us, because we will be ready..."

I moved my leg, entwining it with his – my feet were slightly taller but not so much, actually, and they had the same shape, the second toe slightly longer than the first, just like my father's...

"What do you mean...?"

I was still resting my head on his shoulder – I was so tired, feeling so empty, and I just let his words guide me, for once, let him decide what was to be done, I did not know anymore...

"How can we possibly be ready...? We cannot empty the Iron Hills of their food supplies...

\- Of course not, Thorin... Let them keep their potatoes..."

He was laughing softly, gently grazing my skin with his small foot, and I could feel weariness settle in as my body relaxed under his touch – it did not matter that my back was resting against the hard, cold surface of a bathtub in which I had just thrown up, helpless as a child. It did not matter – my brother knew, and he had a plan.

"We both know what's making you sick, don't we...? It's always ' _what if'_ , and will always be... You cannot bear to sit idly and wait for fate to reach you – so let's just consider every single eventuality. It's not like that Dragon, coming out of nowhere, finding us unprepared, making us leave in haste, wounded and without means. If we go, we go knowing what we'll find and how we'll face it – we will leave being ready."

He sounded so confident, so positive... My shiny brother who was always brave when I was not – who was expert in waiting out and planning, and finding words to pull me back on my feet...

"What eventualities...?"

He pondered my words for a while.

"Well – we have to think about the road he'll make us take. And also where he plans to settle down – grandfather would not want us to be wandering forever, he must have an idea of where he wants to build his new halls...

\- I'm not sure he wants to build new halls... He keeps talking of Moria – his mind is set upon Khazad-Dûm...

\- But there is a slight problem there. Actually a big one, crashing down walls and wielding fire, and no – not a Dragon this time..."

He was grinning, actually. Moria and its dangers did not frighten him that day – oh Frerin...

"I don't think he'll take us straight to Moria. He's much too shrewd and twisted for that. No... tomorrow we look at the map, and we just search for a place where there are Mountains, but no Dwarves – that is not too far from Moria but still far enough not to arise any suspicion, where there are Men but no King and... where we'll find people who'll welcome our fighting and forging skills...

\- I don't need to look at the map...", I muttered, closing my eyes and burying my face in my brother's neck. "The way you make it sound, it can only mean Dunland...

\- Right. But we'll still look at it because one never knows with grandfather. We'd better not leave a single eventuality out – we'll think about the route we might take so as to ration supplies, we find out about the people who live there and we ask every one that could help us to do so. Balin first, then Fundin and Náin. And also ' _adad_ – we don't need him to know about grandfather's plans yet, but ' _adad_ travelled. I'm sure he knows every road and every tribe of Men we could find. What we can picture, we don't fear."

He was stroking my back, holding me against him and suddenly I just gave in, whispering those words close to him.

"I don't want to leave, Frerin... I want Náin to take care of us, and of ' _adad_... I don't want to live through all this again – I just can't, look at what happened while I had to lead... I don't want to mess up again...

\- You never did", my brother said softly. "I never regretted following you. The only thing that hurt me was witnessing that you thought yourself stronger on your own... I wish you would ask for help, sometimes... Why don't you just ask, Thorin? Why does it always have to end like this...?

\- Always? Hold on – you are the one getting sick usually...

\- Yes – because I have drunk too much, or because I have taken wine for raisin juice... Not because I'm half sick with anguish and not breathing a word about it!

\- You were glad enough I did not breathe a word to anyone that day with the raisin juice... I thought I'd never get you back to Erebor..."

I was actually smiling, and Frerin laughed softly.

"Yes... I think you could just trace back our steps from Dale. Five steps, puke, ten steps, puke again – and you... you were just shaking your head and holding me. It was so funny...

\- Not while it happened – you kept repeating you were dying...

\- I was... You'll see, one day it will happen to you and I'll be the one laughing at you.

\- I was not – I was not laughing at you...

\- Alright, you were not. Still – it's not about me, Thorin. You are the one unable to sleep. And sick every single night – don't think I haven't noticed, I have just been respecting your feelings."

I huffed, still holding him tightly, and he rubbed his forehead against my temple once more.

"Do you feel better?", he asked softly. "Think you can sleep a bit now? Tomorrow we will look at those maps, it will be fun..."

I nodded and he pulled me up, keeping his arm around me, gently leading me to the bed again. He pushed me in the chest, making me lie down, and this time I was the first falling asleep, my head resting on his chest while he was stroking my hair. Keeping nightmares away.

Pulling me back on my feet.

"Did you tell Dwalin...?", Frerin asked the next morning.

I had just woken up, feeling somewhat hazy – it had been my first unbroken rest for weeks and I could hardly believe I had slept so soundly, almost like a child.

"Does he know we have to go?"

My cheek was still resting against his tunic, and I could feel his warmth through the fabric, and hear his soft heartbeats.

"Yes..."

My voice was so low that Frerin only heard it because he was close.

"He said he wants to leave with us. He... he promised."

Frerin's hand ran through my hair once more, his fingertips stroking my braids. I had closed my eyes – every time I thought about Dwalin's words, I felt weak inside... I did not deserve such a gift, I still could not understand it, and though I did not doubt him, though I wanted him at my side, I also could not bear to tear him apart from his family, his home, the Hills where he had grown...

"Dwalin is worth more than gold..."

My brother's voice was low, yet full of warmth.

"That is good, Thorin... That is very good indeed...

\- I should never have accepted... How am I to face his parents...? We already took Balin from them, and it made a lot more sense for him to go, back then...

\- We did not take Balin from them. He chose to come, of his own free will – he cared for _'adad_ , shared his visions and wanted to serve and help him. It is the same for Dwalin, is it not?

\- I don't know..."

Frerin bent his face towards me and I could hear the smile in his voice.

"Doesn't matter. I know, that's enough. His parents will understand. They know it already, deep inside. They know there is no way Dwalin won't follow, wherever you go."

He had so much wisdom, so much insight – my little brother I had thought too young to understand... Only weeks before I had been the one holding him close to me, trying to shake off his worst fears – foul creatures that had come out of nowhere to sow death and destruction...

It was long past, the time where such monsters could frighten me – my fears were more insidious, and often I could not even name them. I was just afraid of losing those I held dear – of seeing them die... Of being helpless while their life was taken away, blown out like a candle while I could only watch...

But Frerin, the word-smith, the little Soul-reader – he knew exactly what he was doing in making me look at the maps... He summoned us all, Dwalin, Dáin and even Dís – he made Dáin bring us all the maps he could find and unfold them on the floor in his room, and then we bent upon them. Red, black, brown and golden hair – bent together to guess where our steps would lead us...

The incredible happened then, and I still want to smile and thank my brother for what he did – he knew me so well, he knew exactly what my dreams had been, long ago, while my days had still been carefree, and he gave me the key back to them, somehow...

As I bent down to look at those maps again – I could feel something stir in my Soul, my eyes begin to shine and a smile stretching my lips.

I knew these words. I knew these drawings. I had looked at them endless times – thinking of the day I would finally be able to see what they looked like for real.

I had read so many books, raced through every diary I could find... I had always wanted to explore, to reach for the horizon – I just never had pictured that there would be no home for me to come back to, no shelter to think of while I was discovering the wild...

But suddenly I was a boy again – talking to my cousins about what I had read, and listening about what they knew from the tales of guards that had had to travel far on expeditions as well...

We were lying flat on our bellies, north, south, east and west of that map – Dís switching like the wind, not understanding all of our talks, but still determined to hug us one after the other, gathering a gentle shove from Frerin, a loud kiss from Dáin that made her laugh, a strong embrace from Dwalin, while I would search for her hair with my free hand, burying my fingers in her silken locks.

I still remember her nestled against me, letting me play with the braids I had woven in her hair without really noticing it – I was too busy pointing out names that had always intrigued me...

"Rhûn...", Frerin whispered. "Look at the size of that lake...

\- There are four rivers reaching for those waters... It is so big that actually, some of the first Dwarves that reached it though they had found the sea... The world must have looked a lot smaller on those maps..."

I was smiling, and then my finger went south, closer to the place I was stretched, following the Ash Mountains, jumping above Udûn – I would not touch that accursed place – and then resting upon softer hills called Emyn Muil.

"Is this where Jónar comes from?", Dís asked, and I shook my head.

"No. Not Emyn Muil, _Ered Luin_ … See, the Blue Mountains on the western shore.

\- Oh, that's far away...", Dís said, her small hand trying to bridge the distance between those Mountains and our Hills.

"We will be going almost as far, _sarnûna_...", Dwalin said, meeting my eye, and his broad hand took Dís' in a fond gesture, enclosing her wrist as he made her finger brush the places he named.

"We'll walk on, on and on, say hello to Fangorn's forest without entering it – what do we care for wood when we can have rocks, eh?– and then we'll reach the gap of Rohan, and cross it, and there we will reach Dunland...

\- Do you know why there is a big tower here, Dís?", Dáin asked, his brown eyes sheepish as often.

My sister shook her head – dearest Dís, how on earth would she know about it, the name Orthanc was no clue to her...

"It is because Men are too stupid to guard their own lands – they have to ask their neighbours..."

My little sister frowned, and looked up at me. I recovered slightly, seating myself on the ground, my arm wrapped around her waist.

"Do you see those lands, Dís, below the White Mountains, close to the Sea? Gondor... Once it was a kingdom, actually it still is, but there is no more King – their line has ended, it is said... So now there are only Stewards, keeping the key of the main City, waiting for their King to return... That tower you can see, here, is guarding the Gap of Rohan, another kingdom, home of the House Lords, north from Gondor...

\- Guarding it from what?", Dís asked, and Dáin answered:

"From Men who have become hostile to Gondor – they had war with Rohan, and now they don't like kingly lands anymore...

\- Why?

\- Because they are jealous, Dís!", Frerin said, huffing in annoyance. "It's obvious, isn't it?"

She did not answer, I could only feel her body press itself against mine as her small fingers clutched my tunic.

"They don't like kings?", she asked in a tiny voice – and I could read her fear, after all, she had not seen much outside Erebor, and had never met anyone who doubted kings and questioned their power.

"They don't know kings", I simply answered, smiling at her. "They have never seen one in their entire life. Don't be afraid, Dís – they won't see your crown...

\- We should make a song", Dís said, still holding me tightly, yet less anxious. "A land without king, a king without land..."

She was smiling, and Frerin grinned.

"Great – we'll sing it on the road all the time...

\- No you won't, silly...", Dwalin said, amused yet with an earnest tone. "You don't want everyone to know we are coming.

\- Well, perhaps not", my brother mused. "But I'll still think about words for it, though... _A land without king, a king without land, just look, and remember the ring on your hand_..."

He did not go further that day – he simply bent upon the map and resumed his musings. But eventually he would finish that song, just as he promised... And we always loved to hear him sing that one – it reminded us of that day, stretched around the map, joking about the places we would discover...

Strangely enough I struggle to remember how it became official we would go – and it would indeed be Dunland, my brother had guessed right. I do not recall my grandfather telling me, nor do I remember discussing it with Náin but we must have – surely we must have...

Try as I might, I can only recall that day we laughed around the map – and the tragic day where my father suddenly understood we had to go, that there was no way we could stay in the Hills he loved so much...

Dwalin was not there, that day, and neither was Dáin. I don't remember seeing Dís in the room either – she must have been at Dwalin's house, she must have, because after that he came, and brought her with him... But I forgot...

I just remember being with Frerin, in Náin's sitting room, with my father – and my grandfather coming in. Náin had not told my father yet – he was bringing it to him softly, telling him most of the Dwarves had begun to leave the Hills, had been forced to exile, and it weighed heavy on Thráin's mind. He would stand on the Hills, Náin at his side, and watch them go, his tall frame still under the cold spring's sun – watching his people go without a word, his face closed and sad.

And strangely enough – despite his madness, despite the fact he could not even properly speak to them... most of them still turned, and bowed – bowed to the Prince who had faced the Dragon, and drawn Orc blood for his people...

Thráin the lord of raging fire…

That day my grandfather came in and simply asked him:

"Get ready to leave in a week. We have lingered long enough here, it is time to go and to seek for our own fortune."

He used exactly the same tone as he could have saying: " _Get out of the bed, you have lingered long enough, it is time to earn the bread I have been bringing to your mouth for so long_."

Harsh, and commanding – ever since my father had been a small child, a little boy growing up motherless, never earning a kiss or a fond embrace, always torn from everything that was soft to strive, and reach for more than he could give...

And Thráin had always obeyed. He loved his father – at least he had loved him, until sorrow, grief and pain simply erased what he had always been able to see. Respect, and also care for this ageing father – he had lost it, because Thrór had forgotten to show him he cared, and respected him as well...

But that day – that day he did not obey. He simply stood there, rigid, his face aghast, clutching the back of a chair to steady himself, and I heard him voice the first meaningful sentence to his father ever since he came here.

"What do you mean, ' _adad_?"

It was so strange to hear him call his father like we used to call him... It spoke of days where he had been young – a boy, looking up to him like we had done with him before the Dragon came.

"I mean we are leaving. In a week. Grór won't keep us here our lives long, it is time to relieve him from the care he shows us, and to leave.

\- You... and me, _'adad_?"

Thráin's voice was low, a little shaky, but he was still clinging to the chair, determined to steady himself – he had to manage, he would try to face it, that barren road with his commanding father, he had done it before...

"What wrong did you do to Mahal to be cursed with such a brain? You and me? What would we do on the road, all alone? We are all leaving – you, me, the lads, and those who are still loyal enough to follow me!

\- Not... not the children."

My father had spoken in a soft voice, but it still was firm. He looked at Frerin and me, and then he looked at Náin, as if searching for support.

"Not the children."

It was almost like a prayer, and somehow he found the strength to look at my grandfather, adding softly:

"They stay safe. They stay warm. They stay... away..."

And there his voice broke – ' _adad_... He found the strength to voice the words that were tearing his heart apart – and suddenly I simply could not bear it, I'd rather be on the road at his side, cold and starving, than to know he was alone, thinking of us and weeping...

"No, _'adad_ , we follow.

\- If you go, we go...", Frerin added, biting his lip that had begun to quiver at my father's words.

"Of course they go. They are my kin, my grandchildren, and they have sworn to follow me. We leave in a week."

And there he turned, and would have gone but for the desperate cry my father let out, pushing the chair he had been holding, not caring for it to crash down on the ground.

"No!"

Thrór turned, very slowly, the contempt in his face visible.

"Stop behaving like a child – save me that humiliation, would you?

\- You... don't even know... what a child is!"

Thráin had stammered the words out in a broken voice, his eye bright with unshed tears and his face ashen.

"You did not raise them. You did not hold them in your arms. You say... you say they are yours, but they are not. And I... I won't... I won't let you send them to death – I... won't, ' _adad_."

He was shaking, shaking all over, facing my grandfather who was looking at him, his gaze cold and collected as ever, and suddenly Thrór laughed, a short, barking laugh.

"I'd like to see that done..."

Thráin clenched his fists and Náin stepped up to him, putting his hand on his forearm, but my father shook him off, desperate anger building in his chest and raging in his mind.

"Just look at them! Just face them! What kind of a grandfather are you – what kind of a King are you to ask them to follow you?!

\- ' _Adad_ , don't...", I whispered, seeing him walk towards my grandfather, his face white and his gaze bright – I knew that look, I knew what it could imply...

"Just look at _you_...", my grandfather said coldly. "Where would your children be, had they been left to your care... You don't even remember their names!"

He was still laughing softly and my father's face got even whiter as Thrór went on:

"How dare you speak to me in that tone? I am still your King, and your father, and you – you have failed me in every possible way and still dare to speak up to me...?

\- Grandfather, please..."

My voice was shaky, there were tears in my eyes – I just wanted them to stop, both of them... Frerin had stepped up to my father, was holding his arm, dragging it against his chest, while I extended my hand towards Thrór, trying to make him stop.

And suddenly Thráin lost all restraint. He shook my brother off, so hard that Frerin tripped and would have fallen on the ground, had not Náin caught him in his arms – and then he ran towards my grandfather.

" _Dís – Frerin – Thorin_!", he screamed, and there was so much despair in his voice, so much anger.

"I know their names! They are _my_ children, not yours, never yours!"

He hurled himself at his father then, ready to strike him down, and he would have – he was so much stronger, and my grandfather was old already... But he met my chest instead – I could not bear to see him lift a hand against his King... He might have every reason in the world, nothing could justify such an action, only madness and despair – and they did not atone for betraying every oath...

So I stepped between my father and Thrór, trying to hold Thráin back – but he still hit me, did not have enough time and too much anger to stop himself. He hit me full in the chest and in the face, making my head jerk back against my grandfather's chest who caught me when I fell against him.

My ears were ringing and my jaw was hurting, I could not move, not talk, and I could not breathe – air had left my lungs, and I was unable to take it in again, I could only hang limply between my grandfather's arms, looking at my father who had stopped dead, horror invading his gaze and draining his face of all colour.

"See...?", Thrór said softly, and his voice was shaking this time, just like his hand – I could see it as he was stroking my chest, not noticing I could not breathe, that I was gasping for air...

"See what you have done...?"

My father's moan seemed to tear his own chest apart, and suddenly air found its way back to my lungs – it had to, I had to get to him and tell him it was nothing, that I was fine, that it was much better that his blows had found me, and not Thrór, that it was not his fault...

"' _Adad_...", I whispered, gently breaking free from my grandfather's embrace – Mahal how it hurt, every single breath was painful, his blow had found my ribs, his fist crashing against them...

I tried to walk towards my father but somehow I did not really manage – it was Thráin who met me, holding me fiercely against him, kneeling on the ground. Burying his face in my locks and sobbing.

"It is alright, _'adad_...", I whispered. "It doesn't matter... I know you did not mean it, do not worry... We will be fine, we will all be fine, as long as we stay with you, as long as we don't fight each other... Don't cry, ' _adad_... Please don't cry... We will follow grandfather, you know we will, we always did, but you must not despair, ' _adad_ , you must not cry, we will all be fine, I promise you..."

Talking hurt – everything hurt actually, even my father's embrace, crushing me against him, desperately trying to atone for his blows, terrified by his own violence, and weeping despite my words...

The only touch that helped was Frerin's. He held me against him once Náin was able to take my father away, and I waited for my grandfather to leave as well – I had nothing to say to him anymore, I just wanted him gone, I just wanted them all gone...

But Thrór still stood there, facing us, I seated on the ground and Frerin kneeling next to me, his arm around me, feeling for my jaw, brushing my cheek, his grey eyes bright and fierce.

"Thorin, I...", my grandfather begun, but Frerin cut his speech – that day he was not afraid to do so, what had happened had been too serious.

"Leave. Just leave him alone. He said we would follow you, you got what you need, just leave us!"

His voice was low but there was a savage undertone in it that I had never witnessed – and my grandfather obeyed. I heard the door fall shut, with a soft click – we were alone in that room, alone at last.

For a while we both stayed silent – we could still hear my father's screams, his desperate words and his sobs, hovering in the room around us.

"Are you hurt?", Frerin asked, and his voice was shaking, thick with unshed tears.

I shook my head slowly, and then I felt my face fall. I leant my forehead against Frerin's shoulder and closed my eyes, trying to hold back my own grief. There was such a rift in our family, such a rift between my father and my grandfather – and I had not been strong enough to mend it... I had failed to prevent them from fighting, one with fists and the other with words...

The door opened again and I brushed my eyes, still leaning against Frerin. A warm, strong hand stroked my shoulder and as I turned I saw it was Náin, who had got down on one knee to reach us.

He did not say a word – what could he say indeed? We all knew how narrowly Thrór had escaped from being hit by my father, and Thráin from being charged with treason against his King... It was better to remove him indeed from Dwarven society, where such actions could never be hushed away – but the true solution was to keep him away from my grandfather, and we all knew it was impossible.

"I wish I could keep you all with me..."

He was still stroking my shoulder and I gazed at him, silently, holding Frerin's hand, thinking that he was kind, and strong, and worthy to be loved – a true lord indeed we would all cruelly miss.

"It would not be right", I said finally, and Náin nodded.

"I will accompany you until you reach the Brown Lands. I will take several of my men, and we will make sure you meet no harm until you reach safer territories. Balin and me, we will get Thráin used to that idea, I promise you. He loves you, lads, he never meant to harm you. And I will get my father to speak to Thrór, try to hammer some sense into his brain. Give him the lecture he deserves."

He got up, then, his broad joints cracking as he did so, and he reached out for us. Frerin and I, we both took one of his hands and he pulled us on our feet, before dragging us against his chest.

For a while we just stood like this, and then Náin led us away, entering our room. He made me take off my tunic and brought me ice for my ribs and my jaw. He had me lie down, leaning against Frerin's breast, the pain in my chest receding slightly as weariness came over.

I did not talk, I just let Frerin stroke my hair every now and then. And when Dís came in with Dwalin, she instantly saw I could bear no question. She nestled against Frerin this time, letting Dwalin sit himself at my side.

He looked at the ice that had begun to melt and went out, fetching fresh ice, applying it gently against my ribs that were starting to get crossed with blue, while I was still pressing a cool fabric against my jaw.

"Keeping us entertained, eh...?", he whispered, and I met his kind, brown gaze – so full of unspoken sorrow, and sympathy.

"Don't make me laugh", I answered, trying to smile at him and only managing a wince. "It hurts."

Dwalin smiled, and his hand went on pressing ice against my chest, until it began to melt while my skin was getting numb. Frerin's fingers were still buried in my hair, and Dís held my hand, her head resting on my brother's chest.

We would be gone in a week. That room, those Hills, there would soon be only memory. And yet – despite the pain I could feel, in my chest and every time I thought of my father, I realized the despair I had felt was numbed, just like my skin, soothed by the ice's touch.

Everything I had in that room, every embrace, every gentle stroke – they would still be there on the road. My siblings and Dwalin would be at my side – and there would be other bruises, other blows... but I would bear them, because there was also solace, and kindness.

I did not know where our steps would lead us – but I knew at whose side I would be walking. And somehow, despite the pain and the anguish, despite sorrow and sadness... it was enough.

As long as I was not walking alone, as long as they were there at my side – it was enough.

It was enough.


End file.
